“You live with your parents!” The woman I’d been chatting to on the station platform at Taunton eyed me incredulously.

“Well not exactly,” I replied quickly “my widowed Mother actually but I’m hardly ever there, what with all the pet-sitting work coming in!”

“I don’t suppose there’s much point in having your own house?” She sniffed.  I was about to tell her there was little chance of me being able to afford a mortgage when I noticed our train approaching.  Perhaps it was just as well.

It is a strange business, living in other people’s homes, eating from their crockery and sleeping in their spare beds, re-organizing their store cupboards when I get really bored!  I can never fully relax knowing that I am responsible for the security someone else’s property and the welfare of their pets.

Of course I still have a room in the family home that I can call my own, on the rare occasions that I use it.  I did have to wait until my Father died at the age of eighty before I was able to redecorate it to my taste though!

“I’ve bought a new mattress for your bed.”  My Mother told me on my last visit home.

“I know,” I said “it’s really uncomfortable!”

“I like a firm mattress!” Came her hurt reply.