What’s it like living with people you don’t know when most of your friends are settled in their own homes? Four unlikely groups reveal the challenges and hidden benefits of shacking up with strangers

All-out war over who left the gluey Weetabix bowl in the sink; other people’s hair in the plughole; trying to get some sleep while you can hear next door’s mattress creaking: there comes a point in most twenty- or thirtysomethings’ lives when it feels time to find a fridge of one’s own. But what happens when, possibly decades later, you find yourself back there, sharing your loo and laundry basket with someone who doesn’t share your bed or DNA? This is the reality facing a growing number of people, who, despite years of independence, are being forced back into renting with friends or strangers, because of the rocketing cost of living alone.

Rents have been rising constantly since 2010, by more than £1,000 a year, driven by a huge demand from those priced out of the mortgage market. The average property will now set you back £774 a month, according to the LSL Property Buy-To-Let Index, or £1,204 in London. This rise has been keenly felt by young families and single parents who are struggling to afford space for their children, according to charity Gingerbread. “Two out of five single parents are behind on their bills, particularly rent or mortgage payments,” says chief executive Fiona Weir. “It’s not hard to see why more and more are exploring ways of splitting these costs.”

Flatshare websites such as spareroom.co.uk and easyroommate.com have also reported a surge in the number of over-40s teaming up to save money. At the same time, more traditional communal living is under threat. Last month the 41 residents of two London homes, who range in age from four to 79, were told that One Housing Group, the housing association that owns their properties, intends to “decant” them; they say they have been told that group homes must be phased out. Meanwhile, informal houseshares, whether arranged through private renting or property guardianship, are not going anywhere. Here four groups describe the realities of their unlikely living arrangements.

The single-parent house share

Alexandra Joensson, 30, a PhD student and artist from Denmark, and son Landu, four; fellow single parent Katie Bracher, 33, owner and creative director of a media production company, and her two children, seven-year-old Finley and three-year-old Silvia; and Davine Dubidad, 22, student

“When I split up with my partner, I was seven months pregnant and already had a four-year-old son, so the future seemed pretty daunting,” Katie says. Alexandra was in the same boat: “After the relationship with my son’s dad broke down, I had to think hard about how to survive in London. I had just finished university. I was alone with a child, and had no family around and no job to support myself.”

They met after Alexandra, looking for new artist friends when she moved to Barking in east London, saw photographs taken by Katie in a pop-up exhibition in the town centre and got in touch. They went for coffee with their children in tow and hit it off. “We actually talked about living together the first time we met,” Katie says. “Alexandra came up with the idea. We were chatting about our situations, and we were both like, what the hell are we going to do next? And then it started to make sense: if we moved in together, we could share babysitting, reduce costs, not be stuck on our own in a flat.”

They set up home together, renting out the spare room on a short-term basis to women such as Davine, who needed somewhere to stay: “We had parties, garden days, Sunday roasts, went to the park, would drink red wine together,” Alexandra says.

“We had one cooking day each a week, where we made a meal for everyone and ate together, which was an amazing part of the arrangement,” Katie says. “Most mornings, we had breakfast together in the kitchen. Some mornings, one mum could sleep in. In the evenings, one of us could meet friends or just pop to the shops. It was much better than living alone with children, which means lockdown from 5pm.”

The arrangement was hard-won. When they first moved in to the house, with Katie heavily pregnant, it was filthy; there was no washing machine and promised renovations hadn’t been done. “The landlord tried to put up the rent a day before we moved in,” Katie says. “We were told that they were going to clean, paint the walls. But the day before we were due to sign the contract, we were told they wanted more money and were not going to do those things. When we asked for repairs, the landlord would say, ‘We can hand you an eviction notice if you like.’ We could have been made homeless, because we had already left our previous flats. It’s a stressful situation when you’ve got kids and are on low incomes. I was on statutory maternity pay at the time, and most landlords won’t look at you: they have a blanket rule not to take those who claim benefits.”

Forming a house share between families takes time

Faced with these hurdles, the pair decided to set up a Facebook group and email list to help single parents in London find house shares. They recently moved into separate house shares with other single-parent families. “Forming a house share between families takes time,” Alexandra says. “It’s not easy to organise somewhere near schools, with a support network, near people’s work, to become friends and get to know each other, as well as the house-hunting, which takes at least two months. Then there’s working through the paperwork as a group, so everyone passes the necessary checks.

“There are shocking levels of discrimination in the world of renting,” she adds. “In letting agents’ offices, we have been asked very private questions about our sleeping arrangements, and been told that the fact that we are single women, alone with our children, could put the landlord off having us as a tenants.”

“There is a lack of options for those on a low income,” Katie says. “I would love to see an alternative type of housing that could enable single parents get back on their feet.” Meanwhile, she has created one of her own, now managing the tenants in what was once her family home – sharing with six adults and two children, including a single father whose child comes to stay at the weekends.

These arrangements can help support families and give single people security, but they have hidden benefits, too. “The kids have grown very close and learn a lot from each other,” Alexandra says. “They play and argue, they practise being a part of each other’s lives, just as we grownups do.”

The co-housing community

Facebook Twitter Pinterest ‘It is a bit like being married to 20 people who know each other, warts and all.’ From left: Andrew Pring, Michael Giddings, Jane Stott and Gay Ellis. Photograph: Suki Dhanda

Andrew Pring, 68, Gay Ellis, 70, Michael Giddings, 68, and Jane Stott, 61, all retired and all single, live together at the Threshold Centre, one of the UK’s first co-housing communities based in Dorset. The community is made up of a series of self-contained cottages, but residents share meals, laundry, gardening, a sitting room and trips to the shops

“It is a bit like being married to 20 people who know each other, warts and all,” Andrew laughs. “It is handy living with friends: my alcohol consumption has multiplied since I arrived, and there is no driving home.”

Andrew is one of the community’s gardeners, growing parsnips, onions and asparagus; he’s also a sometime cook. “We have meals twice a week, cooking on a rota, and I do an array of curries at the drop of a hat, feeding 15, even 50 people at times.”

There is meditation every day, a work morning on Tuesday with a “bring and share lunch”, and community meetings on the first Saturday of the month. Cleaning is timetabled, and Gay and Michael do a shopping trip on a Wednesday.

“I am a co-owner and could not afford to live here without being in a housing association-funded property,” Andrew says. “I have a share in two acres of gardens and grounds, as well as a farmhouse, which are all part of the development, and I have the love and support of people around me, whom I have actively chosen as neighbours.”

Jane says: “I had been living with a partner in London, and the relationship ending was a factor in joining a community. In order to live sustainably in the future, we need to rebuild communities – co-housing is a good way to do this.” Michael agrees: “It’s a good solution for loneliness and isolation.”

I’ll be here until they carry me off in my coffin

Gay, who has been divorced for 25 years, and moved to the community 10 years ago from a home she shared with lodgers, feels the same: “I’ll be here until they carry me off in my coffin.”

There are financial savings from a shared heating system, communal laundry and community solar panels. But, Gay says, “This is real life, not a fantasy. The downsides are long meetings, endless time for decisions to be reached, occasional interpersonal animosity. We all have our own space, and should we feel non-community-minded, we have a system to protect our privacy. For me, if my curtains are drawn, it means I am ‘unavailable for comment’. For others, it’s a scarf on the door.”

The property guardians

Facebook Twitter Pinterest ‘It’s like a middle-aged halls of residence.’ From left: Ovidiu Angheluta, Dan Alsopp, Ruth Stafford, Richard Marshall, Dan Swann, Mark Johnson and John Wigham. Photograph: Suki Dhanda

Ruth Stafford, 45, a secondary school textiles teacher, and Mark Johnson, 38, a utilities engineer, are two of eight guardians living together in an empty commercial building in Rochdale in order to save money on rent. The guardians, who each have their own bedroom but share communal kitchen and bathroom areas, are aged from late 20s to late 50s

“When I’m on dating websites it can be a bit awkward,” Ruth says. “I have to tell people I meet that I live with seven other men, but I’m not Snow White and they’re not dwarves. It’s like a middle-aged halls of residence, similar to being a student, but we are a little bit more responsible, I suppose. If someone’s door is open, you can speak; if it’s shut, you know not to bother them.”

Ruth is house-sharing with others for the first time since she was a student. She brought up her daughter, now 24, with her husband, but after the marriage ended, she rented a flat alone and found herself with debts. Earlier this year she’d just got herself straight and was ready to afford buying a place, when “my car went kaput and it wiped out all my savings. I thought, I just can’t keep paying this much in rent”.

I live with seven other men, but I’m not Snow White and they are not dwarves

She started searching online for somewhere cheaper and found a guardian house share. “I kept thinking, I’m too old for this, I can’t live in one room. But the idea didn’t go away. I decided to go and have a look at the property.”

Guardians furnish and live in an empty building for months, sometimes years at a time, keeping it occupied to prevent squatters or frozen pipes. In return, they pay a low licence fee instead of rent. The downside is you can be asked to leave with just two weeks’ notice, though property management companies such as Ad Hoc usually find guardians another home.

“It’s been a lot better than I could have imagined,” Ruth says. “We range in age from late 20s to 50s, and the social aspect is the best bit. I lived on my own for 12 months, quite a distance from friends and family, and when you get home from work, you shut the door and often don’t speak to another person until the next day. I mean, you can on the phone, but it’s not the same. Here, I get home, see Mark, have a brew and a chat, maybe do a bit of work in my room, then meet up for another brew, potter around.

“On the first night here, I was putting up tables and clothing rails in my room, and Mark and John came downstairs and said, ‘You’re not doing that – you’re coming out.’ So we went to the pub up the road, then another pub, then another.”

Mark has been a guardian for four years, moving between various properties, including a convent and an old nursing home. He used to be in the army, so is accustomed to living in shared accommodation. “My original reason for becoming a guardian was to pay some bills, sort out some debts. It’s not London rates up here, but if you’re renting a standard two-bed house, plus gas, electricity and water, it adds up to the best part of £800 to £900 a month. As a guardian, you pay a quarter of that and nothing on bills. I think people get the impression that older people house-sharing would be a bunch of waifs and strays, but they’d be surprised. We all work full time; most of us are single and here because of the cost of living on our own. People do have partners, but as long as no one else is here so extensively that they raise eyebrows, it’s all right. One lad seems quite amorous and has a string of women coming to stay. I make jokes about it. We all get on and knock on each other’s doors – my door is always wedged open. We socialise together. When the World Cup final was on, we piled into my room to watch the TV. We sat out in the back garden with a couple of drinks last summer, or stuck on a barbecue at weekends.”

The moving from property to property gets tiring, though, Mark finds, and guardians have to abide by strict rules – for example, they are not allowed to have children or pets, which is rough for one guardian who has twins who can’t stay over.

Neither Mark nor Ruth sees it as a permanent solution. “I’m on Rightmove every week for a nosy,” says Ruth, who is using the cheap rent as an opportunity to save for a deposit, “but at the moment I am quite happy. Friends’ reactions fall into two camps: those who say, ‘What the hell are you doing? Are are you off your head?’ or, ‘Wow, that’s a really good idea.’ I have decided, when I do buy a property, that I will definitely have a lodger, though. It’s nice to have other people mooching about.”

The multi-generational flatshare

Facebook Twitter Pinterest ‘Living with someone older was good for my job. If I was with people my own age, I would be having late nights.’ Katie Rae (left) and Wendy Wigg. Photograph: Suki Dhanda

Wendy Wigg, 58, a freelance PA, has been renting out the second bedroom of her garden flat in Balham, London, since her partner of seven years moved out in 2003; Katie Rae, 21, is a teaching assistant at a school in Chelsea

When Wendy found herself single 12 years ago, she decided to rent out her second bedroom. Since then, she has had a dozen housemates, some strangers, found on spareroom.co.uk or airbnb.com, and some, like Katie, the children of friends. “Sometimes people have stayed several years,” Wendy says. “My main motivation is financial, but it is great company at times and, as I have cats, handy if I go away.”

I have asked Katie to keep her room tidy. I have mothered her a bit

Katie lived with Wendy for two years, sharing the kitchen, bathroom, living room and a love of reality TV. She has just left to go travelling in south-east Asia and Australia, and another family friend’s daughter has moved in. “Luckily, I have a cleaning lady who comes in on a Monday morning, so we don’t argue over the vacuuming,” Wendy says, “but I did ask Katie to try to keep her room tidy. I wonder if sometimes I did mother her a bit.”

Katie says she didn’t mind, because her flatmate made her laugh, offered her discounted rent and good advice. “Living with someone slightly older was actually quite good for me – for my job, I had to be on the ball. If I was sharing with people my own age, I would be staying up and having late nights.”

Despite the age gap, the pair get on well, and would often eat dinner together in front of I Wanna Marry “Harry”, Made In Chelsea or Towie, chattering about boyfriends, fashion, music and work. As with all of Wendy’s flatshares, they had their domestic routine down pat. “We each bought loo roll, bin bags, washing-up liquid and so on. Whoever happened to be in the shops picked them up on their way home.”

Most of Wendy’s flatmates have been easy to live with, but “occasionally you come home from work and really just want the whole place to yourself”, she says. “Maybe I’ve had a bad day and don’t want to talk to anyone, but to be honest that rarely happens. I like having a younger housemate – you know that they’re going to have their own social life and they won’t necessarily want to be your best friend. I do sometimes give life advice, in a big sister or auntie kind of way. I feel more like a friend than an elderly relative, but I keep them a little bit under my wing. I think that’s natural.”

• This article was amended on 19 June 2015. An earlier version described the Threshold Centre in Dorset as a retired community, when in fact the community has a range of ages, with the majority under 60. One of residents, Gay Ellis, was misnamed as Gay Elliot, and the caption of the accompanying picture transposed Michael Giddings and Andrew Pring.



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