As I sit at my desk, a few feet from my bed, it dawns on me (as it does regularly) that this isn’t exactly where I wanted to be when I turned 40. There’s no gold toilet, no indoor swimming pool, and no butler. Instead, I’m back living and working in my small, single-bed teenage bedroom with two seventysomethings as housemates.

I mean, it’s not the worst situation I could find myself in. I’m thankful I’m not homeless, and I feel lucky that my parents are from London and still live here. But at the same time, it’s frustrating and embarrassing to be stuck where I am. Quite frankly I’m astonished that I even have a girlfriend. “Do you want to come back to my place?” isn’t really as alluring when you have to preface it with, “Would you like to meet my parents?”

My bedroom is also my office. I’m a creative freelancer, which means I’m able to work from home, although that's not just a lucky coincidence; it’s actually something that’s come about from necessity, rather than an overwhelming desire to work in my pyjamas.