I trekked through our neighbourhood this morning with my sidekick faithfully by my side and myself in deep prayer seeking desperate assistance. And as I passed each home I began to view my area in a different light. I saw houses that I’d previous ventured past on many an occasion not as ghastly and hideously common brick veneers built en masse in the late seventies and eighties but as something more.
I began to notice diversity.
Like the way some had elongated driveways, more so than others. The mismatched extensions piled to the ends and tops of the existing building and the way some homes had been styled with French windows and others with Spanish curves. Some were infinitely larger than others and some had meticulously manicured gardens while others had garden beds adorned in awful red chip mulch. There were townhouses and corner block homes. Single story, double and I counted five triple storey ones. I noted that the homes built on corner blocks tended to be fronted closest to the street. Comically enough if you faced them you’d easily be able to peer inside those dwellings. Dwellings were I imagined you’d find a cluttered abundance of imported Italian furniture. Not the suave kind but the annoyingly kitsch European designs that make Interior Designers gasp in mock horror.
And I imagined myself residing in every single one.
How wonderful it would be to live in a home with an adequate sized front and back yard. The ease of a single story during the scorching Australian summer months and the spaciousness of a double story. The novelty of a corner block with appropriate window treatments and the essentially maintenance free freedom that a townhouse provides.
All in all they had one thing in common. They all provided shelter and I would be so very thankful to be given the opportunity to reside in any of these homes today. Big, small I wouldn’t care.
Because the thing is I received a new default notice the day prior and with it the sad realisation that this will haunt me for another seven years. It essentially renders me incapable of ever owning my own home through the access of a mortgage nor could I rent without the assistance of others. And all this until I’m well into my late thirties. That is unless I receive another strike to my financial credibility later on down the track were we begin this tedious process once again. The only difference is I may be well into my forties or fifties.
It horrifies me to think I’ll never be able to move out. Never be able to do this one thing on my own without the support of another. And to think I’ll be unable to provide independence for myself for possibly seven plus years. Well, reality called and I hung up because this is the one thing I’ve looked forward to more than anything. It’s the one thing I used to dream of most frequently as a child, adolescent and even now as a young(ish) adult. I used to write stories about this as a child for heaven sake! Yet for some unspeakable reason it’s been the most unattainable for me.
And will be for another good seven years.
So I prayed for a miracle because what else can I do? I’ll never be able to purchase a home without a mortgage, not in my name at least. And renting? Well the small handful of friends I do possess are partnered and married. They have places of their own and will no doubt want to start a family rather than taking in homeless me and her dog.
A miracle it must be.