While our house has never really been ours coming home today I was struck by a quiet pride in seeing it. We made this, us two, and it’s good.
We’re in the house because Mark’s parents own it, and for lots of reasons they didn’t sell it when they moved to Wiltshire a year or so ago.
There was a bit of a scare earlier when they told us that they had to sell it because they needed the money, and it’s hundreds of thousands of pounds just sitting there. Mark is persuasive when he wants to be, and he convinced them to let us stay in it, but that we’ll pay rent.
That solved two problems: Mark really don’t want to move, and feels quite possessive about the house. It’s the one he grew up in, and if there’s any place that is home to him, this is it.
Since we now pay rent, Mark’s parents earn an income from it, and their financial woes have settled. Yes, we have a little less each month, but we’ll manage. It’s not like we’re poor or anything. I have just quietly told dad to increase the ‘allowance’, ie what he takes out of my savings each month and puts on my card.
Armed thus with economic security, despite being students, this house has become our castle, and we can draw up the drawbridge when we want to. I tried to imagine what it would be like living in a hall, but I can’t see it.
So, coming home, I feel this little pride in our house, our hearth, because of what it represents. We’ve done well for ourselves, haven’t we? We haven’t, yet, pissed it all away. And you know what? I don’t think we’re going to. I don’t feel much like wangsting and fretting about things these days. Instead I feel like this. Funny that.
One day we’ll be this really dotty old couple, and we’ll probably still live in this house. God, that thought actually scares me. I want to see the whole world before I’m done, you know.