Renter’s paradise

On turning 50, I realised I’d never own my own home. What bank would agree to give a mortgage to someone with no regular source of income? Even if I did somehow hold down a job, I would have just 15 years until retirement age.

For a while, I was depressed. Owning your own home is the British dream. Why else would all those property shows I drool over be so popular? I won’t have anything to hand down to my kids. What sort of loser am I?

Then I remembered: I live in a five-bedroom Victorian terrace in Islington, which is owned by the council. At £650 per month, our rent is far less than what private tenants might pay for a flea-infested bedsit in the same area. When the toilet gets blocked, the central heating breaks or the roof blows off, we make a call and the problem is fixed for ‘free’. And while I can’t pass on my home to my kids, I can pass on my tenancy.

Best of all, not having a hefty mortgage has meant my wife and I have been able to be there for our children throughout their lives. Some of our home-owning friends have had to work long hours, miss school assemblies and trust their children’s care to family members or au pairs. While many home-owners can barely afford a holiday, we have several a year. Last Christmas we were in Australia; the year before we spent five weeks in America. We can’t pass on much in the way of capital, but we can provide our children with plenty of memories.