I have moved out of my parents’ house three times. The first, to go to university at 18, before ending up back in my childhood bedroom three years later finding I had graduated with a degree, an improved tolerance for alcohol and absolutely no idea what I wanted to do with my life. The second time, a year later, I moved out to do a masters which was, almost exactly a year ago, unceremoniously cancelled in the middle of a lecture due to Covid-19. I moved back to my family home after a few months of virtual studying in my house-share, grateful for the safety net but anxious at the prospect of graduating into a pandemic and unable to keep up my rent without a job.