It would make for a great TV sit-com, if it wasn’t so bleak: my three 30-something housemates and me still waddling around our Balham house-share in our dressing gowns because we can’t afford to get on the property ladder or turn on the heating. “Pass us the false teeth Emily, I need to take a pic for my SpareRoom profile!”
Much as I like to hope I’ll still have my original gnashers by the time I reach retirement, renting together in our sixties is something my flatmates and I joke about regularly. It comes up whenever one of us has been ghosted by a potential romantic partner for the fifth time in a month, or has to awkwardly suggest we cancel this month’s cleaner because we’ve reached the bottom of our overdraft. It’s tough out there, in London’s renting wild west. We have to laugh or we’ll, well, go even more grey than we’ll apparently be by the time we move out.
