WE are turning into a nation of Kippers, according to the Prudential.

Kippers, or Kids In Parents' Pockets Eroding Retirement Savings, are beginning to sap the life of British households by lingering on in their parental home beyond the age of 18, with one million still living at home at 40.

The papers seemed to be full of criticism about this and bells were tolled for a nation of inadequate men ironing their socks and being dominated by over-bearing mums.

But the idea that more adults are deciding to live with their parents should not be dismissed as a negative aspect of modern life at a time when we have such a lack of community spirit. It is not as if these home-dwellers are refusing to tidy their bedrooms and coming home with their tongues pierced. Why does it have to be geeky or blood-sucking to live with your parents in adult life?

They do it in certain parts of the continent, such as Italy. Extended families share their financial burdens, eat evening meals round a table for ten and draw on the experiences and wisdom of different generations.

It is just in certain parts of the Western world that we commit our children to a life of isolating independence the minute they hit their 18th birthday. Admittedly, I may be a little defensive on the subject as I was, until very recently, a kipper myself.

Over half the 6.8m children over 18 at home do not to pay rent and have some pocket money still given to them by their parents, but whose fault is that? Isn't it about time that parents treated their children as equals? And if we were more culturally accustomed to extended families, I am sure the financial strain would not be as imbalanced. Moving back home a year ago was a culture shock. At the age of 30, my mum was washing my socks for me and berating me for leaving a mess in the kitchen. I recently bought my own pad but ironically, it will be a wrench to leave the family home because I got the chance to build a grown-up relationship with my parents that I otherwise never would have. So long live kippers, I say.

AFTER having bought gigantic homes on the right side of the tracks, young people are now downsizing for more modest houses that allow them to step out of the rat race.

I have a stockpile of post Thatcher-era friends who bought into the ladder-climbing fantasy and invited me round to house warming parties where they showed me their five-storey Victorian manors with acres of garden. I would go home and rock in a darkened room because I thought a big house with designer cushions was the definition of happiness. So it is a relief that it is not me, the recent proprietor of a flat the size of a pea, that feels unfulfilled, but the owners of these big flashy homes who have realised how empty comparisons with the Joneses can be.