It’s your move, or more likely mine. Week 21

theatre

I’ve been feeling quite upbeat this week, partly because of my job; I am working full-time at the moment and hopefully this will continue long into the future, and whilst I love my work, it is also the fact I am in a full-time occupation that will surely help when it comes to applying for a mortgage.

Since I gave up work to look after my two sons, we have been a one-income family and as anyone will tell you, this is not helpful when it comes to mortgages. So what with my newfound employment combined with our very small lifeline that was thrown to us in January, I am hopeful this will go someway towards achieving my end goal of a positive reply from the mortgage broker.

We are still awaiting our company accounts which of course may put the spanner in the works, but I remain hopeful the increase in turnover during the last 12 months will give a healthy financial picture.

Another reason why I’m feeling upbeat is because of a conversation I had with my son. Now as many an adult will tell you, children are remarkably clever creatures, it is of course a great pity the wisdom we all possess is eventually diluted when we grow up, but my eldest son has fortunately not yet reached that stage. Anyway, I discussed the possibility of getting a mortgage and that it was unlikely we would get the size of mortgage I wanted in order to buy the house I would like; it was more likely we would have to look at something along the lines of a flat or maisonette. My long held belief of living in a four-bed detached house with garage and garden by this time in our lives has gone.

But rather than being angry or disappointed in me, of which he has every right, he said he wouldn’t mind living in a flat and just so long as he had a bedroom big enough for his bed, cupboard and chest of drawers, he’d be fine.

This came as a surprise to me because I well remember the many times I moved house when I was growing up and the many times I told my father I hated him. I remember one time in particular when we were moving from Nottingham to Bedford and it was my 13th birthday on the Monday but we had to drive down to Bedford on the Sunday night ready for me to go to school. I desperately wanted to stay at home for my birthday but wasn’t allowed.

I remember that car journey and I remember telling him I hated him.

Now after years of dragging my sons from rented house to rented house, I don’t blame them for occasionally resenting me and I have sometimes been subject to their temper when it comes to owning a pet or putting posters on bedroom walls. So it made a big difference for my son to tell me he was fine with living in a flat.

Of course it may come to nothing and we may not even get a big enough mortgage for a dolls house let along a flat because on top of everything else our age is against us.

But it’s nice to know my son doesn’t hate me, but then I didn’t really hate my father and I realise now how hurtful that must have been for him…perhaps some of that wisdom does stay with us when we grow up, I hope so.

 

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About Sophia Moseley

Freelance Copywriter, Feature Writer and Author. Looking for that illusive job that every working mother craves but surviving, just, on what I can find. My writing and poetry keeps my sane. Watch this space.
This entry was posted in The housing crisis, the mortgage maze and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to It’s your move, or more likely mine. Week 21

  1. calmgrove says:

    Hate is often our own disappointment coming to the surface and erupting in a poisonous way. Like you I’m of an age to forgive my parents of some of the injustices I unjustifiably ascribed to them. I only hope our own grown-up kids are able to do the same.

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