Home

I’m reminded that we don’t own our home each and every time my baby wakes to breastfeed in the night. It’s not the sudden crashing thought of the hideously lumpy woodchip on the walls or the cancerous Artex that covers every single ceiling (and the kitchen walls too), that screams “YOU ARE FUCKING STUCK IN RENTA-LAND WITH 2 TINY KIDS.” Hell no, that thought occurs as I’m pretending to be a barista in the 3×4 kitchen, or when I’m not so yummy-mummily scraping baby shit off the rug. Bemoaning and cursing some other dude’s interior decor is for wakeful hours. It’s during the dark hours that my semi-conscience mind reminds me that we’re eeking out an existence in someone else’s bricks and mortar and we could be given notice to leave with the knock of the postman.

The sum we pay in rent far exceeds the figure, which ALL our friends and family pay in mortgage repayments. If rents were lower (capped), if we hadn’t lost thousands in letting agents fees, removal fees, and miscellaneous fees, we’d have a deposit to put down on a house to purchase. In fact, we’d be home owners now (perhaps even mortgage fee), just like every single neighbour we’ve ever had on our journey through renta-land.