It's a gruel, gruel world

Far be it from me to give you a nice list of heart-warming, Judy Blume-alike moments of emotional and personal growth (because it would make nauseous reading . . . as well as because I don't seem to have any), but even in the least Chicken-Soup-For-the-Soul of adolescences there are times you can't help but marvel at your sudden maturity.

The first time you make a vaguely scary phone call without trying to make someone else do it for you.

The first time you tell someone to take their coat off indoors so they'll "feel the benefit" when they put it on again.

The first time you can watch a sex scene on telly with your parents without pretending to be furiously engrossed in the carpet pattern.

Oh, and yesterday's particular example: leasing your first house.

Perhaps not quite on par with resisting the urge to say "excuse me" after a trumpeting train horn goes off, but it's still pretty big.

I'm giggling into my Coco Pops.

How we've managed it I don't know.

Ten days ago, it was looking increasingly likely we'd end up fashioning our own flat-pack bedsit out of empty Foster's cans and squatting in a discreet corner of Regents Park until Charles Saatchi discovered us and had us pickled as a kind of zeitgeist symbol of heartless government bureaucracy.

Which would have been nice, but a bit nicer is the five-bedroom end-of-terrace townhouse we've suddenly found and managed to fool some estate agents into thinking we're worthy of sleeping in.

Ten days ago, we were mere children, now we are adults who use terms like assured short-hold tenancy contract and get excited about coving.

Of course, there are snags.

Somewhere in between assigning ourselves roles from the Our House lyrics ('Tara wears her Sunday best/Kirsty's tired, she needs a rest/Pete is playing up downstairs') and arguing over whose gubbins would best complement the massive front bedroom (mine, mine, mine), we've realised we won't be able to afford to eat next year.

Unfortunately, Kirsty of Phil-and-Kirsty has influenced me beyond just a liking for statement coats '“ we've chosen location, location, location over food, glorious food and decided proximity to decent shops is more important than having the means to buy stuff from them.

So in keeping with the Victorian authenticity of our new home, we're going to live on gruel. Yum.

Not only will it be cheap and filling, but it will also rectify all the vending machine action of this year and so we shall become known as "those fantastically fit and svelte people with the great house".

And when the novelty of that plan wears thin (I give it two hours), we're going to embrace my revolutionary new partying vision.

It goes like this: we have a house party. People come.

In return for our generous hospitality and donation of our oxygen for their drinking and socialising needs for a few hours, they bring us food '“ a tin of beans, a packet of instant mash, several lobster . . . and thus the karma of the universe continues. No entre, no entry. Genius.

I reckon one a month would keep the wolves from the door, and we can add ". . . who have the amazing parties" to the earlier list of our charms (NB '“ wolves not necessarily a metaphor, I've met worse on Camden Road of a night).

In the spirit of adult independence and modest domesticity, I'm also actually looking forward to not having a cleaner anymore.

Because halls of residence cleaners like to seek vengeance for the toasted cheese dried on to all our surfaces by throwing away half-full bottles of conditioner with a peal of gleeful laughter.

And I can't afford new TRESemm three times a week any more than I can afford to live in a house with nice coving and stay nourished.

Of course, if a parent or five were to, say, drop by with a spare casserole, it would be rude of us not to welcome them with open arms. And if said parents wanted to wash up a few pans while they were at it, well, who would we be to stop them?

Some might consider that renouncing our independence . . . but it's ok, I'll just make a few scary phone calls and help people remember when to take their coat off.

Thus is the adult way.