A PLACE TO CALL OUR OWN

OUR very first home after we were married was a shoe-box sized bachelor flat, but we were blissfully happy nonetheless.

Later we progressed to a more spacious one-bedroom flat with a separate lounge and kitchen. Oh, the luxury! My spouse was later promoted and we ended up renting the upper floor of a massive doublestorey four- bedroom house. Unfortunately for us, the house was riddled with wood-boring beetles. On one occasion I opened a window to let in fresh air and the entire glass and frame fell to the ground. Shock, horror!

Our landlord owned many properties, and was well-known for always being on time to collect rent from his tenants, but equally well-known for his reluctance to carry out repairs. Mr Love was his name, but there was little love shown when one had the temerity to report a problem. Your immediate reward for notifying him of any faults was an immediate increase in your rent. My spouse vowed then and there that no matter how much we had to scrimp and save, he’d never again make another man rich while not having anything to show for himself.

Imagine our pride and delight the day we finally took possession of our very own modest three-bedroom home. Words cannot describe the feeling of ownership and entitlement, and the years of penny-pinching became a distant memory. As time passed and our family grew so did the size of the houses we bought, but we never ever forgot the very first house we could truly call our own. HOME SWEET HOME, EMAIL