Parents.

Christmas! The time where most people visit their parents for the holidays. Like some twisted new episode of Back To The Future, we end up in our former bedrooms. Only that they’re no longer our bedrooms. No time was wasted to transform the bunkbedded, postered havens of our childhood into guestrooms (but why. Parents’ visitors don’t stay over night, do they?). Mine’s now ‘the library’. Even the bed has gone. I am reduced to sleeping on the sofa in my own bloody room.

And onwards! Onwards into a rollercoaster journey back in time. You’re the wrong side of 25, your parents still think you’re somewhere between six and 14. No Mum, I no longer fit into those pajamas. Honestly!. And out come the boardgames labelled 4-6 players, ages 4-99. Bless. And because you still don’t drive, a night out starts behind the house in your parents’ car. Cue nasty flashbacks from the time when they also used to pick you up after a night out in said car. Cue the time when you were desperately trying to hide your first boyfriend in this godforsaken carpark and your parents took great pleasure in waving at you in an embarrassing fashion. Cue the time when you fell into the car blind drunk, hoping the two packets of chewing gum would mask that beery smell evaporating from your every pore. Cue the Have you been smoking? (Moi? Absolutely not. Never!) question. Cue your dad laughing his head off as he hands you a sick bucket once you’re home (not sure how I did that, but my parents let me frequent all sorts of bars and alcoholic house parties from the age of 15).

And Mum still finds great pleasure in taking you shopping. No! Mum! I’ve been buying my own bras and underpants for quite some time now! So can we PLEASE leave before anyone sees us!. Which is nice, if it wasn’t for the fact that Mum’s tastes are a lot more wacky than mine. No, I would NOT like a corset! Neither am I keen on this luminous purple jumper that’s only got one arm!. It’s like the time we faught over me getting a nosering. She was all for it and quite adamant it would be a good idea. I did NOT want a bloody nosering, thank you very much.

And the house! Does anyone else find their parents have been going DIY mad in your absence? Before you know it, there is a new garden wall, they stripped the kitchen off the wood cladding and turned the downstairs loo into a terracotta haven of peace and quiet. It’s all wonky and some of the tiles have fallen off already but hey, it’s the thought that counts, right. And they’re not even retired yet.

After 24 hours or so, it dawns on them that you are indeed heading fast towards 30 and that, no, those pajamas no longer fit. They are not quite sure how to handle that, so they opt for ruthless interrogation instead. So what exactly is it you do at work again?. I suspect they are still a little bit bitter that I did not pursue some kind of creative career route (my sister does costume and stage design at theatres. They like this a lot). So you feed them halftruths about your job, trying to make it sound a lot more exciting and rewarding than it actually is. You foolishly mention some things that are not so good about work. They don’t understand this, because in their world (they are both psychologists. Ouch) bizarre management meetings just don’t happen.

Once the workplace has been covered in great detail, parents like to move on to way more uncomfortable topics. This is usually done in a desperate attempt of nonchalance. Like, over some tea and biscuits, someone will suddenly blurt out Oooh, we really don’t understand why you haven’t got a boyfriend, you’re such a lovely girl!. What the hell are you supposed to say to that? You opt for the safe option of ‘Yeah, and? I am not one of those sad people who need an other half to reach completion of their halfbaked personalities! What good would it do?, because the truthful option (Uhm, yeah, bad luck, not particularly attractive, pathologically shy, given up, no time) would raise too much scary discussion than a teapot and a tin of biscuits could possibly handle. And it’s easier to proceed to slag off people you went to primary school with, who are now married/divorced/carry babies round the village. Because we all know these people are stuck now. In the cul de sac of detached housing hell. Which isn’t what the parents (mine, anyway) had in mind either.

On the subject of school, if you’re really lucky, you might even chance upon your old school over Christmas. Of course you have no desire to go in, but you sneak a peek at the snazzy new chemistry building, marvelling at how you never ever have to go there again.

So there you are, about to fall asleep on the couch in what was once your bedroom. Next to the couch are slippers (The floors are cold! We kept your slippers! Wear slippers round the house at all times, or you’ll catch something!), in front of you a shelf full of books you used to read, hovering over your head is what used to be your desk lamp. And you’re beginning to wonder why you moved out when you weren’t even 18 yet. And why you still have a Thundercats duvet and a shelf full of He-Man toys in your new home. You doze off eventually, and have strange dreams about Kindergarten and the time Dad forgot to pick you up from school (he still feels very guilty about this!) and you sat outside school wailing so loudly that the neighbours finally rescued you. Then, the familiar battlecry that is BREAAAAAKFAAAAAAAAST!!!. It’s like you never left.