It never happens the way you think. There’s no ceremony. Nobody hands you a cardigan and a laminated list of local tradesmen. One day you’re a spontaneous young adult. The next you’re in a car park saying “that’s a ridiculous place to put a bollard”, and the young adult is gone, and nobody held a funeral.
Below are the signs. Score more than five and it’s too late. Score more than ten and stop reading, because you’ve already gone to check whether you left the iron on.
1. You have opinions about the thermostat
As a child, the thermostat was a mysterious device your dad guarded like a launch code. Now you understand. You have said “put a jumper on” to a cold person. You know the cost of one degree to the penny. You walked past the dial, saw it two notches higher than you left it, and felt a betrayal so deep you briefly considered changing the will you don’t have yet.
2. You turn off lights in rooms other people are in
And you announce it. “Nobody’s in here.” Someone is in there. They are reading. You have plunged them into darkness on principle, the way the energy company has plunged you into debt on principle.
The first time you say “we’re not made of money” to a lamp, your childhood is officially over. The lamp knew first.
3. You make a noise when you sit down
A small, satisfied “oof”. Also a noise when you stand up. Also, increasingly, a noise when you think about standing up. Your body now has a soundtrack, and it is a slow brass arrangement of everything you didn’t stretch for.
4. You commentate on traffic
“Ooh, it’s busy today.” “No indicator, look at this one.” “They’ve changed the lights here.” You used to roll your eyes at this from the back seat. Now you provide it live, with analysis, to a child who is rolling their eyes in the back seat. The cycle has a seatbelt.
5. You have a drawer
Batteries of unknown charge. Rubber bands. Menus from three takeaways that have closed. A key that opens nothing. A manual for an appliance you no longer own. You will never empty this drawer. One day someone will empty it for you, in silence, with a bin bag, and keep only the key, for reasons they can’t explain.
6. You say “it was only…”
“When I was younger a coffee was only two quid.” Nobody asked. You were talking about a dog. The price-of-things-in-the-past monologue is genetic and activates around thirty-four, the same year your knees file their first complaint.
7. You check the weather forecast for fun
Not to make decisions. For entertainment. “Ooh, it’s turning on Thursday.” You say it at work. Colleagues nod. Some of them are also turning. You can see it in their fleeces.
8. You leave parties at a sensible time and feel great
Leaving at 10pm used to be failure. Now it’s victory. Home by 10:40, teeth brushed, smug, while the young people pick a club. You sleep the sleep of the righteous and wake at 6:51 for no reason, the same way you’ll wake every day until you don’t.
At some point “early night” stopped sounding like a punishment and started sounding like a holiday. That’s not maturity. That’s the warranty running out.
9. You own a favourite knife
And a favourite pan. And a favourite chair others may sit in only when you’re out. If someone loads the dishwasher wrong, you reload it while they watch, silently, the way your mother did, and her mother before her: a bloodline of silent reloading that ends, like every bloodline, with someone loading it wrong at your wake.
10. You enjoyed a garden centre
Not tolerated. Enjoyed. You walked slowly. You touched a pot and said “that’s nice”. You had a scone. You joined a mailing list. You’re excited about the spring catalogue. You have started counting how many springs that is, and you stopped, because the number was smaller than you’d like.
11. You call it “the” something
“The Facebook.” “The internet.” “The big Tesco.” Adding “the” is the clearest sign of all. It’s a linguistic grey hair, and unlike the real ones, you can’t pull it out.
12. You understand them now
This is the real one. The day you realise your dad wasn’t being dramatic about the bins. The day you understand why your mum sat alone in the car for twenty minutes before coming inside. The day you realise they were also making it up, tired, in a cardigan, keeping the heating bill down, and that they were younger then than you are now.
You call them. You say “I get it now.”
They say, “Get what? Hang on, your father wants to tell you about the traffic.” You listen. You find it interesting. That’s how you know it’s finished.
Scoring
- 0–3: Still young. It goes faster than the heating bill. It goes faster than anything.
- 4–7: Transition phase. You own a fleece. The fleece owns you.
- 8–12: Fully converted. Your reading glasses are on top of your head. Your children have started this list about you.