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At almost 21, (which is four years off 25, which is half way to 50, which is half way off a 100), I feel like I'm blundering through life wondering when I'll become a ‘real person', a ‘grown up'.

This week's Write Space by Jessica Culley.

I'm waiting for someone to bound towards me and announce with enthusiasm, encouragement and conviction: 'Jessica! You are now mature and sensible, and henceforth everything you do and say is real and adult! You are now an actual person, like the ones you see on the television or read about in books! Those short stories you churn out when you're angry or sad, those are real. You can get those published, become famous and live in a big house! You can do anything, and it's valid!”

Is there a moment when life abruptly tips over, like a bucket suddenly filled to capacity? A moment when you've finally learnt and experienced enough to consider yourself a true, contributing member of society?

Looking back on my short, under-the-radar existence, I see things happen in stages: I'm dandled on a lap, I'm taught to tie my hair in a ponytail, to eat with a knife and fork, to dress myself and to ride a bike. I breeze through primary school, then trip into high school, where I am uniformed, given purpose (very important essays and assignments) and played off against my peers for results that don't mean a hell of a lot. I graduate, I hesitate…

… Then I'm flying overseas. I'm hurtling through a diploma. I'm moving to a new city. I'm throwing myself headfirst once again into study…

But it feels different now. I live away from my family. I buy my own food and make revolting meals which I force down with a grimace (I cannot waste now; I'm learning the value of money). I pay bills and casually flood my apartment because the washing machine confuses me. I apologise to an irritated flatmate. I take sole responsibility for the life of my cat. I wake myself up and make myself nip around the corner for ‘school'. I say what time I come home, if I come home…

And I'm wondering, am I grown up now? Do these things and events mean I'm real? Is this life? This isn't exactly what I expected – but I'm not sure what I thought would happen…

Perhaps I imagined a scenario similar to passing serenely through a decorative gate, gracefully collecting brochures labelled things such as ‘Welcome to the Real World', and ‘Life, so now you're in it'. I'd take the offered cup of tea and talk politics and weather with finely dressed folk.

But since none of this has happened, nor do I predict it will… I'm assuming that this is it. I've already made that intangible transition into a life of power bills, responsibility, unpleasant meals and flooding washing machines.

Welcome to the real world, indeed.