Like a Rolling Stone
One of the odd things about life is the way that sometimes, realising you have made a hideous error somewhere along the proverbial path, you are forced to take a proverbial step back in order to take another two proverbial steps forward. This is an inconvenience at best, but is inestimably preferable to blindly blundering on down said proverbial path and finding yourself rapidly immersed in the proverbial shit right up to your proverbial ankles.
The last thing you want to do, having erred, is compound your error by fronting it out. Far better to stop, take stock of the situation, then write a self-indulgent blog about it, preferably using a certain word in the first paragraph far more often than is necessary or sensible.
To get to the point, I messed up last year. Professionally, personally and on most other levels I can think of, I made a fluffy duck's bum of things. I was involved in a house-share in Manchester with some other comics and, with all due respect to them, when the tenancy came to an end in November and the decision was made to go our separate ways, I was relieved as it represented the end of a less than fruitful chapter in my life.
The only issue was financial – being as I am a struggling artist (Irony or pretension? You decide!) I didn't have the money put aside to pay the deposit on a new flat, so I was forced to take the step back I alluded to earlier – namely, I had to move back in with my parents.
I will caveat the rest of this blog by stating explicitly that my parents are both loving and supportive and welcomed me back into their home with open arms, providing me with a comfortable and expedient base from which to reassert myself.
However, I must say that, from my point of view, this was far from ideal. They live in Skipton, a breathtakingly picturesque market town in North Yorkshire, a lovely place to retire to, or to wander round idly on a summer's day. It is, though, officially at the at the arse end of nowhere, and a nightmare to get back to when your job requires you to be away at night. It is also, compared to the bright lights and myriad attractions of inner city living, a very sedate place to be. Factor in that I know no-one here save for my parents, and my evenings at home can seem long indeed.
The other problem is the stigma (in my head, if no-one else's) of being a 28 year old man who is still living with this parents. Surely this is the domain of losers and misfits. I'm a comedian, and comedy is largely the purview of losers and misfits, so maybe I shouldn't be so taken aback at feeling this way. It is, however, a bit demoralising, especially from a social point of view. Should, heaven forfend, I secure the affections of a young lady, I can think of no more assured passion killer than the sentence, "You wanna come back to mine? But you'll have to keep it down – my parents are in bed".
Of course, it's not ideal for my parents either. They had just settled into the steady groove of retirement when I came back like a bad penny. They have been remarkably gracious in accepting their boomerang child back into the fold, and I owe them a massive debt of gratitude. Things are okay, - aside from the odd quibble about my infringment of house rules (which I am guilty of, although I've not lived at home for 8 years, and have got so used to being king of my castle, master of whatever grubby little domain I've surveyed, that there are times when I forget that this is technically not my house) and my frustration at not being able to persuade my father that when, for professional reasons, you keep the hours I do, 10am does not constitute a lie in.
I suppose it's just culture shock. I'm not used to being here and they're not used to having me. It's just a blessing that they agreed, as the streets of Manchester have been, I'll warrant, a bit nippy over the last few months. I may look like I belong in a shop doorway, but when it comes to image I'm no method actor.
I would like, for the sake of balance, to sign off on a positive note, so here goes.
The food is wonderful.
Peace. X
The last thing you want to do, having erred, is compound your error by fronting it out. Far better to stop, take stock of the situation, then write a self-indulgent blog about it, preferably using a certain word in the first paragraph far more often than is necessary or sensible.
To get to the point, I messed up last year. Professionally, personally and on most other levels I can think of, I made a fluffy duck's bum of things. I was involved in a house-share in Manchester with some other comics and, with all due respect to them, when the tenancy came to an end in November and the decision was made to go our separate ways, I was relieved as it represented the end of a less than fruitful chapter in my life.
The only issue was financial – being as I am a struggling artist (Irony or pretension? You decide!) I didn't have the money put aside to pay the deposit on a new flat, so I was forced to take the step back I alluded to earlier – namely, I had to move back in with my parents.
I will caveat the rest of this blog by stating explicitly that my parents are both loving and supportive and welcomed me back into their home with open arms, providing me with a comfortable and expedient base from which to reassert myself.
However, I must say that, from my point of view, this was far from ideal. They live in Skipton, a breathtakingly picturesque market town in North Yorkshire, a lovely place to retire to, or to wander round idly on a summer's day. It is, though, officially at the at the arse end of nowhere, and a nightmare to get back to when your job requires you to be away at night. It is also, compared to the bright lights and myriad attractions of inner city living, a very sedate place to be. Factor in that I know no-one here save for my parents, and my evenings at home can seem long indeed.
The other problem is the stigma (in my head, if no-one else's) of being a 28 year old man who is still living with this parents. Surely this is the domain of losers and misfits. I'm a comedian, and comedy is largely the purview of losers and misfits, so maybe I shouldn't be so taken aback at feeling this way. It is, however, a bit demoralising, especially from a social point of view. Should, heaven forfend, I secure the affections of a young lady, I can think of no more assured passion killer than the sentence, "You wanna come back to mine? But you'll have to keep it down – my parents are in bed".
Of course, it's not ideal for my parents either. They had just settled into the steady groove of retirement when I came back like a bad penny. They have been remarkably gracious in accepting their boomerang child back into the fold, and I owe them a massive debt of gratitude. Things are okay, - aside from the odd quibble about my infringment of house rules (which I am guilty of, although I've not lived at home for 8 years, and have got so used to being king of my castle, master of whatever grubby little domain I've surveyed, that there are times when I forget that this is technically not my house) and my frustration at not being able to persuade my father that when, for professional reasons, you keep the hours I do, 10am does not constitute a lie in.
I suppose it's just culture shock. I'm not used to being here and they're not used to having me. It's just a blessing that they agreed, as the streets of Manchester have been, I'll warrant, a bit nippy over the last few months. I may look like I belong in a shop doorway, but when it comes to image I'm no method actor.
I would like, for the sake of balance, to sign off on a positive note, so here goes.
The food is wonderful.
Peace. X
posted by Ben Schofield at 7:47 PM
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