Guardian journalist has psychological meltdown after buying his first house
As is often the case with Guardian articles, I had to read it twice to make extra sure it wasn’t a spoof. Making an important financial decision without engaging your brain is one thing, but why on earth would you then tell the world about it? Is this some sort of deranged humblebrag?
There is something deeply wrong with this man’s thinking process (if I can call it that):
Ten minutes. It took 10 minutes to decide that this house was good enough to make me want to spend the rest of my life in debt to a bank.
Consider the possibility that you should perhaps not be allowed out unsupervised.
It isn’t even my house. It belongs to a bank, and I’m going to spend the next three decades buying it back from them half a per cent at a time.
Did you genuinely not realise this beforehand?
I’m a freelance journalist in the year 2016, so, realistically, I only have four months left before work dries up and I’m replaced by a Facebook Live video of a toddler balancing on a log.
And yet, the “belonging to a bank” bit still did not resonate with you?
If the oven explodes or the fridge goes kaput or sludge starts seeping out of the plugholes, you just call your landlord and someone will come and fix it for free. Now, though, that’s on me.
No way! How is this kind of very important information not made public? We are kept in the dark, it’s outrageous!
And there’s a fishpond, too. An entire fishpond that I didn’t clock during my sole cursory glance about the place, that seems to have been put there specifically to endanger my child. I mean, Jesus Christ. I’m an idiot. That’s the only explanation for this.
Now we’re getting somewhere.
Worst of all, buying a house makes me feel like a traitor. It feels as though I’ve let down all my generation-rent friends, as if someone drew a line in the sand and I deliberately chose the side of Kirstie Allsop. I feel as if I have become part of the 1%, and I should ride about inside my boxy, broken-down new home on a pony like the shrieking Fauntleroy I apparently am.
Could you please stop with the self-flagellation? If you’re feeling so guilty, why not donate the house to one of your “generation-rent friends”? I’m sure they, unlike you, will be very happy and sleep soundly at night.
House prices increased much faster than my ability to sensibly save for a deposit. Getting it together was like trying to chase a moving train. But now I have caught up with it, and jumped on board, and discovered that all the other passengers are nitwits. This cannot possibly end well.
No no no, you are in fact the only nitwit here. I assure you the rest of us do know what we’re doing, so kindly do not insult us. If grown-up life is too much for you, I suggest you move into sheltered housing for vulnerable adults. Sell that house and you can easily afford it.
