Last summer, as our three children’s combined ages hit 99, we finally escorted the youngest off the premises and had the place to ourselves, theoretically for good.
Ellie had lived in her own place before, but, as is so common these days, the gravitational pull of the parental home had sucked her back into our orbit — twice.
The same had happened with her brother before he finally escaped. The eldest of the three, Ruth, had given nest evacuation a kick-start by the not undrastic measure of marrying a bloke from Cornwall — then emigrating to the US.
So here we were in our empty nest, a family-friendly three-bedroom ground-floor flat in fancy-pants Richmond, southwest London, fully vacated after a near-century of parenting.
The first thing we did was move to somewhere the kids would be less able, or inclined, to invade again. Home is now an early-18th-century riverside loft in somewhat less fashionable Brentford, west London. It has a second bedroom, but unfortunately that is now an office. My wife, Sue, and I both work from home.
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So, in the unlikely event of any of the children wanting to stay over at ours, the spare bed is a huge black leather sofa, which they loathe. That or the Premier Inn nearby.
I got the sofa after wanting one for years, but being banned from having it by Sue and the children. Sue actually hates it too, but for her, like me, it’s a symbol of our new independence.
There are many others. The biggest, for me, is being able to play my own music, loud. Ellie and I regularly came to blows about my penchant for Coldplay and other dad music during the final three years we shared a roof.
I once caught her out (she says this never happened — it did) complaining about me playing a “terrible” Canadian band. Thing was, we had discovered them at the same time, listening to Radio 6 in the car. And she in particular loved the band — until I played their music.
Another thing I am enjoying is food autonomy. When you have a young adult living with you, he or she will have no compunction about moaning, like a teenager, about the catering arrangements.
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A problem we had with both Ellie and David was that if, unusually, they expressed a liking for a particular grocery line we had bought, we would buy it again. And often again and again, just for the peace.
Yet this would lead to howls of complaint. They would open the fridge, see whatever it was they were now bored with, then do an impression of a van laden with it and backing up, complete with “This vehicle is reversing”.
Well, now we can buy whatever we want, and as much or as little of it as we choose. Our takeway spending has also plummeted.
I am also delighted to have retaken control, for the first time since, well, ever, of the light switches. When all our children used to leave lights on continually, I would say: “I can’t wait for the day when you’re paying your own electricity bills.” Well, that day has come, and it’s great.
Things I’m missing now I have a nest empty of young adults? I hate the slight feeling of being a retired person. After that 99-year sentence, being free feels rather, well, pointless. After I’d spent a long day working at my desk, Ellie would often make with the big eyes and ask if I could pick her something up at the supermarket — which I would do just to get out of the house. Now, even when we don’t need anything, I will often walk out to the shops for nothing in particular.
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I also miss her showing me hilarious, or merely interesting, things she’d found online. And her cooking; a couple of times a week, she would make dinner, and it was like having a live-in chef. We liked that a lot — if not the chaotic shambles she would leave behind her in the kitchen.
And one last thing I miss. I always hated knowing that our kids were out and about late in London, on night buses or wherever else it is they go. While Ellie was in residence, I could always hear her blundering in at ridiculous o’clock, and usually making toast, fish fingers or something equally night-inappropriate. I could always sleep soundly once I’d heard the thudding and thumping.
Now I sleep undisturbed every night, and it seems sort of not right.
How to reclaim the nest
• Accept that, if your final departing offspring (FDO) is a freelance anything (which most of them are) or just badly paid (which the rest of them are), they will be renting, and not from a posh, civilised corporate agent, but a rough-and-tumble local one. And you will have to stand guarantor.
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• Be prepared for a world of pain — incomprehensible forms, questions that make no sense, agents who don’t respond to any communication. And that’s not forgetting bizarre landlords. All this, or most of it, will be your world, at least until your child moves into his or her new place.
• If you want to leave FDO’s room exactly as it was, feel free. But don’t leave their favourite childhood teddy glowering out from atop the chest of drawers. It will make you too sad.
• Think twice before turning FDO’s room into an AirBnB. They may take offence.
• Make sure FDO goes on the electoral register at his or her new place. You don’t want to be infected with their dodgy credit rating. Alternatively, FDO might not want to be infected with yours.