Downsizing is, let’s be clear, a privileged problem – and not one I ever expected to have. I grew up in a series of well-built council houses in Scotland at a time when Margaret Thatcher might turn up with the keys in exchange for a sports bag of dirty fivers if you exercised your right to buy. My parents never could or would. A “bought hoose” was a distant dream, even as “luxury units” mushroomed around our village, neat new boxes popping up where slag heaps once sat. They triggered my aspiration, but also made me feel ashamed.
I didn’t live in private accommodation until university. Neither of my parents was supported to finish high school, so they knew nothing about university. They couldn’t warn me about petty rules, how repairs can be late but rent never can be, and how you are always living on borrowed time. My landlady evicted me after finding me in bed with my first boyfriend – she cited the “moral” clause in my contract, which I had missed. Legally, she was in the right. Luckily, I found a shared house to move to and swore I would never be so vulnerable again. Buying became about security, not prosperity.
