Moving

I have finally decided to take the plunge. I am buying a place to live.

Goodbye rent, hello mortgage.

There are a number of observations I would like to make about this whole phenomenon of becoming a home owner.

Firstly, the amount of work involved is truly staggering. Stuff keeps cropping up which needs your attention. I spent a lot of my time over the past six weeks or so walking around Dublin from one place to another, doing all sorts of seemingly bizarre and innocuous stuff.

Secondly, there is a lot of stages involved. You need to find a broker, get some offers, obtain information about your income, organise life assurance, obtain certification of your income, organise house insurance, snag the property, certify the snagging, organise your furniture, organise your appliances, and so on.

I was relatively lucky. I'm buying a new apartment, which comes painted, with fitted wardrobes and kitchen, so that cut some of the problems out immediately. It also comes with a maintenance contract, so I did not have to worry about insurance.

Thirdly, life assurance is a total pain. They ask you loads of questions about your health. Me being me, I naively answered with complete and utter honesty. As a result, I delayed the policy issuance by several days as Eagle Star kept coming back to me with forms about my childhood asthma and the fact that I had toenails removed six years ago.

To say I feel stupid is something of an understatement. The only material effect of this honesty was to delay the closing.

Fourthly, not wanting to pay dead-rent for the month of September, I decided to move out of my residence at 37, Violet Hill Drive at the end of August.

Initially, I planned to crash there for a few days, then stay with a friend out in Ashbourne for the rest of the month. Of all the unexpected things to occur from buying an apartment, this surprised me the most. I felt out of place from the very first night. Coming home late from a night out last Thursday, I did not feel at home in Violet Hill Drive.

It was an incredibly strange and unpleasant feeling. It was nothing that the lads did, or even the new residents. It is all in my head, but no less powerful for that.

Suddenly, I was strongly conscious of the fact that I did not live there.

I cannot explain the feeling, but last Sunday night, driving out to Ashbourne with a car loaded with my computer gear, I was struck by a morose and nostalgic longing. Memories flooded through me.

Images flicked through me like channels on a digital television:

• a very drunken Magyar, a reactionary and homophobe, but very pleasant all the same, pissed out of his brain, jokingly demanding that a terrified Frenchman should come out because he was the only thing he wanted;
  
• a beautiful girl, drunk and upset, sitting on my bed in my room, reading my palm and bewilderingly asking why I was always so nice to her;


• standing over the cooker, preparing my creamy chicken pasta dish with a lasagne in the oven, nervously watching the Hobo arrive with her equally attractive friends, desperately trying to hide the fact that I was terrified the food would not be tasty;


• finally losing my temper with the Athlete, screaming in her face because I was tired of her never complaining to the other lads directly;


• the guilt I felt when she broke down crying as a result;


• playing Homeworld at 0430 in the morning in the run up to Christmas, the only light in the kitchen coming off the monitor as I struggled to complete the mission "Supernova Research Station";


• the exultation I felt of finally getting a girl to stay the night, sex or no sex;


• the disappointment I felt through admitting that my heart was not really in it, staring at myself in the bathroom mirror as I realised that hurting her was inevitable;


• the rage and fury I felt the first time when I finally started losing on a regular basis to The Big Guy at Pro Evolution 4, ranting at the Chameleon, belligerently unapologetic for my lack of graces in defeat;


• the pain in my sides from the laughter at my relating to the Magyar of the debauched and outrageous antics of my football team during a weekend trip to Swindon;


• looking at the new room created by the new occupant, and acknowledging that a chapter of my life, probably one of the most influential, was over.
  

My new apartment in Premier Square is ready, and the deal is set to close. The bank await my life assurance policy, the money is in the post.

By the time I return from the wedding in New York, I will have a new chat up line for the ladies:

Hi! My name is Mick Cooney, I'm landed and have prospects.