I
have lost my leather trousers. I bought them for
£80 in cash from a market in London when
I was hungover and they squeaked as I walked.
I loved them. I think they are down the back of
a cupboard in the last flat I lived in. Or at my
ex-boyfriend’s house. Or maybe at my parents’,
where I moved for lockdown earlier in the year; which
also means that they could be in Edinburgh with one of
my sisters by now, or on the wrong side of London with
the other. But they might also be in the garage where
I stored my belongings between rentals. Or maybe they
have just disappeared.
It’s not much of a surprise. I am a millennial and
I move a lot. Over the past eight years I have lived in
five constituencies and had 17 housemates. In the three
years since I left university I’ve had five different
commutes. One third of my generation will never own
a house. We know our homes are ephemeral, our
flatmates temporary. And so we are not particularly
emotionally committed to either. We live with whoever
else reaches the end of their tenancy agreement at the
same time as us. It makes it tricky to figure out our
relationships with the people we share a roof with.
Are we friends, or stand-in siblings, or partners in
a financial agreement? Usually a precarious mix
of the three.
Instead we compensate by having bigger “urban
families” — a sprawling support network of friends
spread across different households, each a late-night
taxi ride or Tube journey away. When life is normal
that works fine. But of course nothing is normal right
now. We are trapped in our homes again — and even
though I don’t live alone, it is still hard not to feel lonely.
I tell my older colleagues — the ones with mortgages
and children — and they look at me, confused. What
they would do for a week of lockdown alone-time.
I don’t know how lucky I am, they say. All that peace
and quiet, the spare hours to while away between workand bed, no demands on my time. But in many ways
I am envious of them. Their homes may be loud and
messy, but they are also loving.
I miss family noise. Of course, I could move back in
with my parents again. But I don’t know if either party
could take another lockdown together. Last time
around resulted in far too many heated debates about
politics and pornography — and all the other things
people my age think they understand better than
anyone else. Besides, our twenties are supposed to be
about establishing new boundaries with family and
figuring out who we are by ourselves. We exist
somewhere in between: too old to live in our childhood
bedrooms, not yet old enough to have a permanent
base of our own.
I ask some of my friends what they have found
hardest about the past seven-plus months. Those who
have been working from home are struggling with the
monotony and the stillness. Others talk about job
insecurity, collective grief, not being able to hug their
grandparents. But lots also say they miss flirtation,
spontaneity, sex, snogging, dancing and loud music.
I get it. This summer I was camping with some
friends when, in the middle of the afternoon in the
middle of a field, we decided to get in the car, shut the
doors, shut the windows, plug in an iPhone and turn
the music as loud as it could go. It was the closest thing
we could get to a festival: its communion and chaos.
It was glorious. Perhaps it goes some way to explaining
why young people seem to be more likely to break
social-distancing rules. I suspect it has more to do with
seeking togetherness, rather than purposeful rebellion.
Life is challenging for everyone right now.
Millennials are not suffering through the pandemic any
worse than other generations, just differently.
As soon as I am safely able to, I will be moving house
once more. According to the tenancy agreement,
I have to take down the pictures I wasn’t supposed to
hang on the walls and erase all trace of myself with
Polyfilla and paint. I need to make the flat look like
I was never there in the first place. All until the next
tenant wants to make it feel like their own and moves
the bed to the other side of the room and finds that
there, in the corner, covered in dust and in need of a
wipe-down, are my brilliant leather trousers that I will
never see again n
CHARLIE CLIFT FOR THE SUNDAY TIMES MAGAZINE @MeganAgnew. Matt Rudd is away
MEGAN AGNEW
Over the past eight
years I have lived in five
constituencies and had
17 housemates
Wherever I lay my leather
trousers, that’s my home
For millennials, putting down roots is harder than ever in a pandemic
The Sunday Times Magazine • 5