1. Without speaking to the bank or a mortgage broker, you assume you already know what you can afford.
“Just something modest, perhaps with a dock or small cove? You know, for when guests come over.”
2. You spend hours looking at your dream houses online.
3. Then you meet with your bank or a mortgage broker who say you can afford significantly less than you originally thought.
4. Defying the odds and the ridiculously small amount of money your bank says you can afford, you’re determined to find a house in the VERY SPECIFIC AREA you like.
5. But then you realise that those houses are small (oh so small) and few and far between.
6. You think you could manage living in a tiny, small house and never having any friends over.
But then realise. You would do anything for love. But you won’t do that!
And by “that” you mean living in a shoebox where you have to eat, sleep and wee all within a five foot radius of each other.
7. Begrudgingly, your search area widens. Suddenly a 45 minute walk to the station seems totally reasonable.
“I’ll get one of those adult scooters, babe! It’ll be fine!”
8. Property search websites and apps take over your entire existence.
“Three new properties in this area! OMG.”
9. You become oh-so-wise to the estate agent lingo.
“A modest garden with a southerly aspect? Don’t bullshit me, Dexters.”
10. You soon know the area you’re willing to buy in like the back of your hand.
“Ladywood Road is not in Surbiton, it’s in Tolworth. Did you think you would get that past me, Greenfield’s. Did you? DON’T FUCK WITH ME.”
11. You find some places that will do.
“It could work. Maybe…”
12. You arrange viewings throughout your entire work week. And when you actually go and see them, they’re HORRIBLE.
“PLEASE DON’T MAKE ME LIVE HERE!”
14. An hour before you’re meant to go view it, you get a phone call.
“Hi, it’s Gemma from Foxtons? So, so sorry, but the property we were meant to be viewing today has had an offer accepted.”
15. Before you know it, you have become a ruthless, rabid Kirstie Allsopp without any scruples.
You book viewings with any place you wouldn’t want to kill yourself living in. You consider putting in offers just to fuck with other potential buyers. YOU JUST WANT A HOUSE.
16. After viewing hundreds of terrifying shoeboxes full of horrid built-in wardrobes and questionable carpet – you see a place you love. You put in an offer.
19. You then have to start the entire process over.
WHERE DO I EVEN BEGIN.
20. After weeks of half-hearted searching, a house you viewed a month ago comes back on the market.
“I’m sorry what?”
22. You don’t know how to feel because the process has numbed you and killed all residual feelings of hope.
23. You are then sent paperwork. So. Much. Paperwork.
24. They need to know so many things about you. You need to produce bank statements, give them your medical history, your mother’s medical history, and possibly a stool sample.
25. THEN SOMETHING HORRIBLE HAPPENS.
This horrible thing could be one of many horrible things.
You need to put together a bigger deposit. You need to have a letter signed by your deceased father and faxed to your solicitor by noon. The seller doesn’t want to include the roof in the sale any more. SOMETHING HORRIBLE.
26. You overcome this horrible thing, but have had to sacrifice whatever shred of excitement you had left for moving into this house.
27. You ruthlessly pack up your belongings, throwing things out if you can’t immediately find a box for them.
“What’s this? Do we ever use this? GET RID OF IT.”
28. By the time you exchange, you’re only a shred of a human being.
29. By the time you’ve completed and picked up the keys, you’re a shell of the person you once were. Numb to everything. So numb.
30. Your unpack, realising you don’t have enough cupboard space, storage space, or furniture, but HEY. YOU’RE IN.
31. Your goal is to be unpacked and with the main rooms decorated within the first three months of moving in.
OBVS, this is not the case.