I always thought I had done rather well out of parental hand-outs: extravagant
birthdays, family holidays to far-flung places, music lessons, horse-riding
fads, endless clothes and allowances to spend on more clothes and teenage
trinkets, not to mention school fees, tuition fees and my rent while I was a
student. However, it has recently been brought to my attention that there is
one thing Mum and Dad probably won’t be shelling out for: the deposit on my
first house.
Having spent the past 26 years forking out for four squabbling children, and
only recently coming close to paying off their own mortgage, you might think
this is perfectly reasonable. With three of us living in London and one
still sponging at home, they would have to sell up and live in a rat hole in
Swindon to stump up the kind of cash needed to get us on the ladder. Anyway,
is it not time we forged our own friendships with the bank manager and got
real about life’s hardships? Until recently, I would have agreed.
Owning property of my own is something I had forgotten to consider seriously.
I had always imagined myself living in a jolly farmhouse somewhere in Kent
or Oxfordshire, with chickens, a handful of cherub-like children and a
gallant husband to collect logs for the fire. Since I’m planning on having a
career as well, I like to imagine I will also have a high-ceilinged
apartment somewhere in London to save the commute, and I have always thought
owning a chalet in the Alps or the Dordogne in France would be a great way
to entertain friends.
I’m not sure how I thought I would achieve this, since I’m rubbish with money
and there’s no rugged husband (with a fat wallet), either here or visible in
the distance, to cough up for my fairy tale, but I always assumed I would
manage some day. In the meantime, I thought, I was happy renting a flat with
friends in north London, safe in the knowledge that if the washing machine
breaks down I can call our landlady and pass the buck.
That was until I found out other children are getting a better deal. Nearly
all my parents’ friends, I discovered over Christmas, are buying their
sprogs first homes. Some — the ones who provided the fanciest toys — are
giving them money outright. And the rest of the kids are collecting dosh
from those devoted parents who have chosen to sell up the family home.
My parents, on the other hand, have neither spare cash saved up nor a whack of
inheritance to do the same for me and my siblings. Although the house where
I grew up in Oxford has increased substantially in value since my parents
bought it 18 years ago, they have no plans to sell up — at least until my
younger brother leaves for university, five years down the track.
Dad did look into buying somewhere for the three of us older ones in London
(optimistic considering the arguments between us), but ruled it out before
we had a chance to bully him into it. “You’re looking at a hamster hut in
Kilburn, otherwise forget it,” he said.
It’s not until you are told you can’t have something that you truly realise
how much you want it. There I was, thinking all of my pals were in the same
boat, cash-strapped and spend-happy, but in it together nonetheless. I
couldn’t have been more naive. A ex-council two-bedder on an estate might
seem modest now, but in five years’ time it will, knowing my luck, be the
most desirable digs in the city. I will still be dreaming of chickens while
my friends wave merrily from their country estates.
News of the interest rate rise earlier this month couldn’t have been more
inconvenient. Not because it’s something I would usually bother to think
about, but because it makes a bad situation worse, with those in need even
less likely to receive any help from home. “Rate rise leaves parents digging
deeper to help,” declared the headlines unhelpfully. “The Bank of England’s
decision to push the cost of borrowing up to 5.25% will make it even more
difficult for first-time buyers to get on to the property ladder unaided.”
If I tried to borrow money based on my salary alone, I would send even the
lowliest estate agent out guffawing into the street. I could club together
with friends — and some of them are in the same situation as I am — but even
then I would still have to persuade the bank that I’m not a complete waster
despite the pathetic mess my bank balance is in.
I never used to have it in mind to scrounge off my parents, but it has now
become apparent that there is no real alternative. The more I spend
fattening the pockets of landlords, the further behind I’m going to slip,
and the more I will go crying to Mum and Dad.
Since understanding the depths of my misfortune, I have scaled down my
extravagant ambitions. I have learnt that denial is no way to lay plans for
the future. Now I need to persuade Mum and Dad that buying me a house is
their ticket to freedom.
Cash advances
- Move back home, make yourself a pain and wait until they suggest helping you
out
- Forget your differences and join forces with brothers and sisters
- Get a good job to show them you are trying
- Leave your bank statements lying on the table
- Mention property price rises as often as possible, until it drives them crazy
- Get an estate agent to value their property
- Remind them old age is better in a sunny location
- Promise them grandchildren in exchange for a house
- Tell them they can have the deposit back when they retire
