If you had asked me aged five what I wanted to be when I grew up, the likelihood is that I would have told you I wanted to be a train driver. At age seven, following a trip to Sea World, I would have answered Marine Biologist. As a ten year old I decided I wanted to be a barrister because I liked how it sounded (which, let’s face it, is hugely important at that age!) I’d be happily married to my primary school girlfriend and we’d have so many children that we’d have to drive them around in a double-decker bus.
Then I became a teacher and realised that celibacy looked like a pretty good option.
Nonetheless, I like to think that I have a good relationship with my inner child, although he still gets me into trouble sometimes, like laughing at inappropriate things or eating a whole packet of Haribo in one sitting. Recently, this has manifested itself into an unnatural urge to not just jump, but launch myself feet first into any puddle that I might come across. In fact as a child I had a dedicated ‘puddle jumping’ outfit for a number of years so it’s no surprise this craze has come back once again (although thankfully without the waterproof onesie of the first instalment.) Now back in the shire this is still teetering on the edge on acceptable behaviour for a 24 year old, but in the city, well that’s a whole different kettle of fish! I actually feel sympathy for the sensible people who have to put up with the slightly maniacal puddle jumper who roams the streets of the midlands. Scratch that; ditch the Blackberry Mr Lawyer, and forget the fact that your shoes cost more than my car; befriend your inner child and join me on my rampage. Go on, I dare you!
But now, at the
ripe old young age of 24, much as I hate to admit it, I think I might have become a grown-up.
I can practically hear the sharp intake of breath.
But why now? What is so significant about this day approximately half way through my 24th year of existence, rather than, let’s say for arguments’ sake, the day I left home, or the first time that I realised that if I drink a whole bottle of wine to myself I would be sick, or even the realisation that doing stuff just to wind up your parents is actually way more effort that its worth?
Because today, I applied for a mortgage; an actual, real, I’m-going-to-have-to-pay-proper hard-earned-money-every-month-until-I’m-sixty mortgage! Am I insane? Quite possibly! This isn’t at all like the time I bought Clarence House in Monopoly and then had to sell it to my dad to make a quick buck to pay my rent, because no amount of brightly coloured Monopoly money and parental pestering if going to get me out of this if it all goes tits up! In the words of that generic grandparent, You’re on your own now, lad.
I’m now realising that this mortgage will more than likely be the longest and most expensive relationship I’ll ever have, (and let’s face it, with my previous relationship history that isn’t going to be difficult!) But this isn’t something that can be easily terminated if it doesn’t pick up after itself, or if we agree after two years that it just isn’t working out; if we break up, it gets the house. In a round-about way the nice mortgage man (for want of a better description) even asked me what I would do if I died! DIED! I am now quite literally tied to this mortgage until death do us part, But only if your insured, mind you. Can’t be too careful these days!
I think I’m going to need to find a pretty big puddle to jump in to get over this.