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Oh the joy of finally being on my own... of being able to sit on the floor and eat my dinner off my lap... being able to watch T.V until 3 in the morning... being able to eat my breakfast at an unreasonable time, and not getting up out of bed for three days not even to go to the loo!

Yep you have guessed it, I was living the dream after moving out of my folks home and renting my first apartment. Good job my Mom wasn't there to see what I was doing.

I turned from being a nice, clean, well mannered and well kept 18 year old young lady into a bum, overnight, and I reveled in it. For about 2 weeks. Then I woke up.

I woke up to the reality of food bills, electric and gas meters, lonely nights, shared amenities, and THE LANDLORD, who insisted on having his rent every week without fail.

I woke up to the reality of shared chores... so that was how the toilet got cleaned? And you have to do what to get rid of the nasty ring about the bath? And this flapping thing made out of old ropes you call that a mop? Right. Hello Mom I'm coming home. But that was the problem. Home wasn't where my parents lived, home was here, where I was, right now.

OK, moving out of my home into my one roomed apartment was hard, but I realized that I had to make the best of things and so I created my own home that suited my nature, so that anyone who visited me could see that the place was all mine and that I had stamped my own mark all over it.

I put up hooks into doors and hung billowing curtains across, separating the huge room into two separate spaces and created an individual bedroom for myself. I made myself a cooking area where I had a kettle and microwave and some little shelves and I called it my kitchen'.

I covered my bed with an antique eiderdown bedspread and added different cushions of all shapes and sizes. Someone donated a large leather armchair for my home from home' and I covered my walls with all my favorite pictures. Now I didn't want to go home... I was home already and it felt good to go to work and then be able to come home to my room, chill out, and just worry about myself. And instead of hating the loneliness, I reveled in it, and took up painting and writing.

I purchased a parakeet and named him Harcourt Fenton Mudd (Harry for short) and it turned out that the bird was as mad as me.

"Your bird is crazy", commented my friend we she climbed the stairs from the main kitchen, accompanied with our freshly cooked roast dinner. "Yes he is" I warned her,"and mind your

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