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I was raised to be an independent sort of person. My parents – although highly supportive – have always allowed me to get on with my own thing.

Like the time when I received my A-level results, and my dad distractedly glanced at the certificate and remarked:

“Wasn’t the thing you just did called A-levels? I thought that meant you got all As at the end…?”

When it came to finding suitable accommodation for university,

I was likewise left to my own devices.

I drove from Kent to Cornwall in my rusty old Citroen 2cv and holed up in a terrible B&B on the seafront.

I felt pretty grown up, drinking cider in a fisherman’s pub and writing awful poetry in my sketchbook, but secretly I was nervous.

The only item on the breakfast menu that I dared touch was the prepacked German cheese.

In the morning of the first flat viewing I went for a stroll around town, feeling braver.

I had not spent a lot of time on the British coast and decided to wander along the beach.

I found the Cornish sea stunning in all its turquoise glory, compared to the black waters of Sweden. Sadly, I forgot there is such a thing as a tide.

Naturally, I got cornered and had to scale a wall to get out, my nice flat-viewing skirt soaked to the waist.

I walked into the first viewing utterly dejected and embarrassed, signing the first piece of paper thrust at me.

And what a lucky thing it was.

The flat was a hovel but the strangers I moved in with are still my friends today.

Mum and dad were pleased I had found a place.

However, moving my belongings 300 miles south-west was left to the independent person to get on with.

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