I always thought I had done rather well out of parental hand-outs: extravagant birthdays, family holidays to far-flung places, music lessons, horse-riding fads, endless clothes and allowances to spend on more clothes and teenage trinkets, not to mention school fees, tuition fees and my rent while I was a student. However, it has recently been brought to my attention that there is one thing Mum and Dad probably won’t be shelling out for: the deposit on my first house.

Having spent the past 26 years forking out for four squabbling children, and only recently coming close to paying off their own mortgage, you might think this is perfectly reasonable. With three of us living in London and one still sponging at home, they would have to sell up and live in a rat hole in Swindon to stump up the kind of cash needed to get us on the ladder. Anyway, is it not time we forged our own friendships with the bank manager and got real about life’s hardships? Until recently, I would have agreed.

Owning property of my own is something I had forgotten to consider seriously. I had always imagined myself living in a jolly farmhouse somewhere in Kent or Oxfordshire, with chickens, a handful of cherub-like children and a gallant husband to collect logs for the fire. Since I’m planning on having a career as well, I like to imagine I will also have a high-ceilinged apartment somewhere in London to save the commute, and I have always thought owning a chalet in the Alps or the Dordogne in France would be a great way to entertain friends.

I’m not sure how I thought I would achieve this, since I’m rubbish with money and there’s no rugged husband (with a fat wallet), either here or visible in the distance, to cough up for my fairy tale, but I always assumed I would manage some day. In the meantime, I thought, I was happy renting a flat with friends in north London, safe in the knowledge that if the washing machine breaks down I can call our landlady and pass the buck.

That was until I found out other children are getting a better deal. Nearly all my parents’ friends, I discovered over Christmas, are buying their sprogs first homes. Some — the ones who provided the fanciest toys — are giving them money outright. And the rest of the kids are collecting dosh from those devoted parents who have chosen to sell up the family home.

My parents, on the other hand, have neither spare cash saved up nor a whack of inheritance to do the same for me and my siblings. Although the house where I grew up in Oxford has increased substantially in value since my parents bought it 18 years ago, they have no plans to sell up — at least until my younger brother leaves for university, five years down the track.

Dad did look into buying somewhere for the three of us older ones in London (optimistic considering the arguments between us), but ruled it out before we had a chance to bully him into it. “You’re looking at a hamster hut in Kilburn, otherwise forget it,” he said.

It’s not until you are told you can’t have something that you truly realise how much you want it. There I was, thinking all of my pals were in the same boat, cash-strapped and spend-happy, but in it together nonetheless. I couldn’t have been more naive. A ex-council two-bedder on an estate might seem modest now, but in five years’ time it will, knowing my luck, be the most desirable digs in the city. I will still be dreaming of chickens while my friends wave merrily from their country estates.

News of the interest rate rise earlier this month couldn’t have been more inconvenient. Not because it’s something I would usually bother to think about, but because it makes a bad situation worse, with those in need even less likely to receive any help from home. “Rate rise leaves parents digging deeper to help,” declared the headlines unhelpfully. “The Bank of England’s decision to push the cost of borrowing up to 5.25% will make it even more difficult for first-time buyers to get on to the property ladder unaided.”

If I tried to borrow money based on my salary alone, I would send even the lowliest estate agent out guffawing into the street. I could club together with friends — and some of them are in the same situation as I am — but even then I would still have to persuade the bank that I’m not a complete waster despite the pathetic mess my bank balance is in.

I never used to have it in mind to scrounge off my parents, but it has now become apparent that there is no real alternative. The more I spend fattening the pockets of landlords, the further behind I’m going to slip, and the more I will go crying to Mum and Dad.

Since understanding the depths of my misfortune, I have scaled down my extravagant ambitions. I have learnt that denial is no way to lay plans for the future. Now I need to persuade Mum and Dad that buying me a house is their ticket to freedom.

Cash advances

• Move back home, make yourself a pain and wait until they suggest helping you out
• Forget your differences and join forces with brothers and sisters
• Get a good job to show them you are trying
• Leave your bank statements lying on the table
• Mention property price rises as often as possible, until it drives them crazy
• Get an estate agent to value their property
• Remind them old age is better in a sunny location
• Promise them grandchildren in exchange for a house
• Tell them they can have the deposit back when they retire

Explore Property

• Buying & Selling

• New Homes

• Overseas

• Interiors

• Investment

• Gardens

• Specials

Times recommends

• Fall in house sales hits builders, estate agents and mortgage brokers
• Why the property credit crunch favours cash buyers
• The blood-curdling history of Quarrelwood House