About two years ago, I had an argument with my parents that lasted a week. I had just started working and had been invited to a new friend's place. She was 22, almost the same age as me, but she was living with her boyfriend. Believe it or not, she was the first person I knew of my age living away from home and I put that down to the fact she was brought up in a Western culture - going to an international school, boarding school and university in England.
But my parents and I didn't argue about my friend. We argued about her flat. It was the top two floors of an old building along High Street, an area close to my favourite haunts of Lan Kwai Fong and SoHo, and simply decorated with antique Chinese furniture, red curtains and candles. After my first visit, I couldn't help comparing my life with hers. We were almost the same age and yet our lives were so different. Why was I still living in a tiny flat with my parents? So I told them I was moving out. Their reaction was predictable.
'Of course you're not!' my mother screamed. 'Don't you know how lucky you are living at home? You have us taking care of you and I cook you healthy food. Don't you have enough freedom? Have I ever asked you what time you're coming home at night? Have I commented on what you have been doing?'
Then my much more mellow dad said: 'It's still too early for you to live on your own. We will talk about this later.'
'I think you have been badly influenced by your gweilo colleagues,' said my mother, signalling the end of the conversation. And so I stayed at home.
Then the other day, my dad finally lived up to his promise and we discussed the matter. He asked me whether I was still considering living on my own. I said I hadn't given it any thought.
