Remember the good old days when you lived under the tyrannical (or so your teenage mind thought) rule of your parents? I have fond memories of screaming until I was blue in the face, so angry at my mum and dad for the most minor of disagreements. Slamming doors in perturbed faces, producing a never ending stream of tears and silent huffs that lasted for days - I've done them all.
Be it for the unsuitability of my clothes ("no daughter of mine is going out dressed like that") to the amount of time I spent outside my family abode ("you treat this house like a hotel") no issue was left untouched. But there were ways to escape the drudgery of my confines. Yes, my journeys to freedom may have been more EastEnders than The Great Escape, but they were fun nonetheless. Opening my very creaky front door in perfect unison with my dad's snoring, his sleep apnea did wonders for my secret social life. It may have driven my mum absolutely insane, but don't underestimate the opportunities that can arise from having a father who snores so loudly you can hear him outside (and that was with double-glazing). But my life of subterfuge didn't last long. Shortly after discovering my adeptness at evading my parents, I found myself moving into a place of my own.
With no rules, and no one to answer to but myself, I had the world at my fingertips. I could go out whenever I wanted, I could see whoever I wanted and I could stay up as late as I wanted. But with the weight of such numerous social responsibilities on my shoulders, there was only one thing I really wanted to do. And that was stay in. I took to slumping on my irresistibly comfy sofa, glued to the deluge of inane drivel pouring out of my television screen, only able to prise myself out of my stupor every few nights or so. Sure, I went out and saw my friends regulalrly. But I never fully realised quite how much I enjoyed the freedom of doing nothing until I had to move back in with my parents earlier this year, after moving to Abu Dhabi for work.
It may have taken years to rid myself of the teen angst that fuelled so many of our family fights, but one disapproving look from my father at one of my more recent outfits was enough to bring my 16-year-old self flooding back. Back are the ridiculously long spells of silent treatment, as are the tears at not being let out past my bedtime. But I can console myself with one thing at least. My dad still snores.