Where My House Went

I've realised that the majority of my friends have now become real, legitimate adults and bought houses. Which is great - seriously, it means I have places in several tourism hotspots where I am permitted to crash for free when I travel. And, of course, I love them all dearly and am delighted they've done so well for themselves, particularly "in this economic climate" (it just DOESN'T STOP being amusing to type, does it??). I mean, what's a house cost nowadays? Several hundred thousand pounds. And MY FRIENDS have these ridiculously costly things! It's amazing! We used to go the drive-thru ATMs and take out a single $20 bill of an evening, and now they're dropping serious cash! That's like Biggie shit.

Anyway, this thought occurred to me last night in my rented flat: where's my house? Or, to use more words, where did my house go? Look, I'm not going to go all "financial one-upmanship" on you; I'm just going to say that My Attractive Husband and I both earn good wages that our parents would high-five us for. Well, my mother would; My Attractive Husband's mother is British and doesn't really "do" high-fives (more's the pity). So if we're earning the same as our friends, why do they all have houses and we don't?

Then, the answer came to me: I have done a lot of weird, irresponsible, wonderful shit. Shit that is really not conducive to saving up tens of thousands of pounds for the sole purpose of being permitted to borrow HUNDREDS of thousands of pounds, that you will then spend the rest of your life paying off. Shit that makes for great stories, but for completely rubbish storage space. Shit that I should really be celebrating more, since I've certainly paid plenty of cash for it.

This is an account of that good shit. The shit that makes the monthly rent worthwhile. This is an account, dear reader (if I ever get any) of Where My House Went.