I have moved house eleven times in the past eight years. More times than I can count on my hands, in less than a decade.
Now this isn’t because I just love the thrill of packing up boxes. Of carrying them up and down flights of stairs. Of paying yet another set of estate agents fees to change my name on a contract or print a single sheet of paper or whatever else it is they claim to do.
It isn’t also, I hasten to clarify, because I am a terrible housemate who people cannot abide in their home as I steal cheese from the fridge and leave dirty socks on their pillow.
It was because of a much more depressing reason.
Partly my (presumably) higher than average tally was because I chose to live abroad, to follow an adventure and my heart (and all that entails). But drama and globetrotting aside, the constant movement and never settling was down to being part of generation rent.
To being part of the group of people who know that they’ll never be afford to save enough for a deposit on a house (seriously, a croissant from Pret is a treat round here) and just have to make do with living in other people’s homes.
Five years ago this didn’t bother me, in fact I was more than content with commitment being someone else’s guarantee and being able to leave as and when I pleased.
But not anymore.
More and more I wish I could invest in the place I live, to feel like I’m putting down roots rather than just wondering how much of my deposit I’m jeopardizing by putting another nail in the wall.
It’s difficult to ever feel fully settled when you know the rug could be pulled from under your feet with barely any notice – two friends have both been told they need to leave their flat with only a cursory four-week notice period.
It really doesn’t do much for the sense that we are grown adults with a handle on everything when you’re trawling Spareroom for another group of strangers to take you under their wing.
So. Anybody fancy giving me a few hundred thousands pounds?