It was late in the evening earlier this week and I could not sleep because my mind was buzzing with worries. My low fixed-rate mortgage deal comes to an end next summer and so, rather than sleeping, I was in bed trying to calculate how much my mortgage would increase if mortgage rates were five, six and 6.5 per cent. The projected repayments grew larger and so did my worries.
I realise I am far more fortunate than many — to own a house in London and to be in work — but that did little to quiet my worries. I tried to talk to my wife, but she was reading a novel and didn’t want to be disturbed. I got annoyed. “Why aren’t you as worried as me?” I asked. “Because there’s no point,” she replied. No point? That stung because if there is one thing I am good at it is worrying.
