Shared-house living was the responsibility and chaos I needed at 22

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My 18 year-old nephew, Ned, arrived in Sydney last week.

Fresh from a stereotypical English land-owning rural life divided between boarding school and his father’s farm, he’s here for the upcoming Sydney club rugby season, hoping to gain some valuable experience after the last six years spent playing schoolboy rugby.

Three rugby-playing schoolmates have joined Ned and are looking for accommodation until the upcoming club rugby season ends.

His mother, my deceased sister Mary, would be thrilled that her son is living out of home at the same age she made the same leap out of her comfort zone.

Ned’s imminent share house adventure and then, this week, reading I’m sad young people aren’t getting to experience the horror and chaos of share houses, in The Guardian made me reflect on my own shared house experiences.

I had an easy life as a student.

I lived at home with my parents for all my secondary and tertiary education years.

Mum washed my clothes and prepared my meals.

I had my own room, which was large enough for a desk and soundproof enough for me to play my records as loudly as I liked.

Then, at the age of 22 I went off to see the world, free of adult supervision – I couldn’t have felt freer.

After four weeks of travel through China and the (then) Soviet Union, I arrived in London and secured my first job in recruitment.

At the time, I shared a two-bedroom apartment in Fulham with four Australian women and the brother of one of them.

I slept in a single bed, and the room’s other bed (a queen) was (separately) occupied by two of my female housemates. It wasn’t the most comfortable situation, but the rent was relatively cheap, and public transport was nearby so it was tolerable.

Until one Saturday night when one of the women brought a guy home from the pub where she worked, and they proceeded to have noisy sex in ‘our’ bedroom approximately three metres from where I was attempting to sleep.

The next day, I started looking for another place to stay, which, thanks to a work colleague, I managed to secure after only a week.

For the remaining 17 months of my time in England’s capital I lived in a North London terrace with four flatmates (Julian from Lancaster, Frankie from near the Welsh border and various women in the other two bedrooms, including at one point, my sister Mary (pictured right is the ‘final five’ at my farewell party in September 1990, L – R Mandy, Julian, Emily, me, Frankie).

I had not given any thought about what useful life skills I had gained through navigating the many challenges of shared house living until Patrick Lanton’s article in The Guardian prompted my reflection.

As the author recounted his experiences of sharing life with random others for an extended period under the same roof, I contemplated how quickly I had to grow up in those 19 months of shared living in London.

Those nearly two years in London turned out to be quite an extraordinary period in recent history with the fall of the Berlin wall, Nelson Mandela’s release from incarceration on Robben Island, the Hillsborough disaster in which 97 football fans died and the hugely unpopular poll tax dominating the last months of Margaret Thatcher’s 11 year reign as British PM, all occurring while I was temporarily a London resident (as an Arsenal FC fan I will also add the famous return to the top of English football by Arsenal, who won their first title in 18 seasons by beating ladder leaders, Liverpool 2 – 0 at Liverpool’s famed home ground, Anfield, on the last day of the season to win the title ahead of Liverpool due to more goals scored after being level on points and goal difference).

I was desperately trying to succeed in my new job while learning how to shop, cook, and organise clean clothes for myself. After spending £238 monthly on rent, I budgeted £50 for food, transport, and entertainment each week. It was a precarious existence as it took a few months before I started to earn commission and, consequently, have a few extra pounds to spend each week.

I didn’t know how difficult it would be to consistently and thoroughly organise my own life, harmoniously co-exist with strangers, and draw on all my resources to succeed in an unfamiliar job 17,000 kilometres from home.

I was homesick but got through it and learnt some valuable life lessons along the way.

As Lanton says,

“A national survey found almost half of young adults are living with parents and nearly one-third of those aged 26 to 29 are living at home (and)….what’s also being lost (by young people not being able to afford to live out of home) is quality of life, independence, discovering friendship and community and, dare I say it – having fun.

It’s learning social skills that are actually very helpful for adult things like navigating the murky politics of the office fridge.

Or perhaps it’s more about learning independence and self-sufficiency, such as being able to cook

For me, living in these share houses was the adventure and the chaos that I desperately wanted, and probably needed.”

It’s now over three and a half decades ago but I don’t recall desperately wanting adventure and chaos through shared house living but I know it was the kick up the backside I certainly needed after the cushy life of living off my parents.

I am sure Ned will find out more about his values and character amongst the challenge and chaos of shared house living he’s about to experience.

How Mitre 10, campus life and Lon do n made the recruiter in me