A fortnight ago, my partner and I asked to renew our tenancy. In reply, the property manager prompted us to “confirm” how much more rent we could “comfortably afford” – because, of course, tenants must be responsible for fluctuations in the housing market, and costs must be passed on to them. We said that there was no increase we could “comfortably afford”, and now we’re waiting – to see if we can stay, or if we’ll be priced out. Anyone whose home life touches the sharp edges of the housing crisis is probably intimately familiar with this kind of waiting, because the experience of dealing with both precarious labour and insecure housing is so unsteady. Unable to plan for the future, you become trapped in the present. You feel a bit like a duck moving its legs underwater, staying still but only through constant effort.
This week, while unsteadily suspended waiting for a response, I have consumed two things. The first: aspirational interior content on Instagram, which my algorithm has been serving me in generous dollops in what can only be a sick joke. This usually has the power to make me nauseous with bitterness and envy, but luckily the second thing I pored over was journalist Kieran Yates’s new book All the Houses I’ve Ever Lived In, which has instead inspired, angered and galvanised me in equal measure.
