Last night we managed to spend quite a lot of the evening not talking about houses – which, let me tell you, is no mean feat.
It’s all we’ve talked about for the past six weeks. Sometimes, when we’re in bed ... you know ... I close my eyes and see shaker kitchen cabinets and disastrous carpets and floor plans. It’s disturbing to say the least – having just read Chocky*, I’m more than a little concerned that perhaps some house-mad alien has infiltrated my head and emptied it of all useful items, such as how to cook Bolognese so that it tastes of something other than pan and how to concentrate at work for longer than three seconds without compulsively refreshing Rightmove.com . Must. Look.At.Houses. Gah! Even now, mid-sentence, I’m thinking – perhaps we SHOULD go see the Canon Street property, and I just sent Robbie a rather bland looking townhouse in Shawford. My Chocky needs therapy.
We had a little row about the usual stuff which I felt bad about afterwards because I think it’s my uncertainty at buying the house. I’m worried that it’s too much work for us and we’ll end up completely broke. I found it hard to get to sleep last night thinking those thoughts. Who can when they’re looking at having no money for the foreseeable future and a desperate need for a top which is almost a dress but not quite and can be worn with the almost skinny jeans. Oh, and the £2.5k I need to pay for my MA this year.
So, I checked with my mortgage broker this morning and have completely terrified myself (and Rob) with potential repayment options. I won’t bore you with the details, but monthly repayments on a £280k mortgage are eye-opening. I remember my sister telling me how much her mortgage was and me saying solemnly to myself – I will never pay that much. I think it was about £400.
I wonder how much our children will end up paying ...
To lighter things:
Books I’ve read this week
Savage Grace by Natalie Robins and Steven M. L. Aronson – absolutely fascinating, impressively researched but incredibly depressing. The perfect of example of what happens when you’re very bright but you don’t have to work. It was a relief when it was all over, but I still want to shake Brooks Baekeland for being such a self-absorbed nob.
*Chocky by John Wyndham – short and, as such, after the 450 pages of Savage Grace, a good read, if only for the wonderfully dated language. Really beautiful relationship between father and son. And nothing like what I remember of the children’s tv series – no pulsating triangles anywhere. Or was that just me?