Despite my previous whining I am now, the vagaries of soliciting aside, very nearly the owner of an entire house including, though not limited to, some rooms, a roof, two floors, and at least four whole walls. I don’t have anything to put inside those walls – my main possessions being bicycles and books rather than cupboards and beds – but the option is there should I wish to make use of it.
These, then, are interesting times. At least they would be were the entire process not so utterly bereft of interest and urgency. I marvel, truly marvel, at the fact that the drudgery of house buying hasn’t been automated by now because I can’t think of a single reason why it wouldn’t be. It’s as though the entire industry is somehow deliberately anachronistic, convoluted and plodding so as to milk money from those embroiled in it. Imagine that.
Talking about houses, mortgages, kitchens, interest rates, and colour schemes is important you see, and I must share my insights with you always whether you want me to or not. There was a time when I didn’t understand why that was but now that I, too, have succumbed to the inexorable tick-list of what’s expected, I can confirm that it is indeed so. Oh my, yes. The good deals on the things in the places and the excellent cover for the material goods and the objects? All are paramount in my mind now.
Only … they’re not. They’re boring. They’ve always been boring and they’ll always be boring. They are dullness itself and, while I will accept that my enthusiasm for cartoons, weird music, and make-believe are childish and immature, at least they don’t involve talking to a solicitor about conveyancing or deciding which colour the bowl you shit in is going to be.