Near the end of last year, after much discussion and soul-searching, The Limey and I put in an offer for a garden flat in south London.
Two hours later, my work announced lay-offs.
Luckily, The Limey had been cheeky and put in an offer lower than what we'd agreed on, and the seller rejected it.
Here's the thing, though, all our thinking about buying a place centred around where we'd like to live vs. where we have to live to get to work. And all of a sudden, one big problem was eliminated (albeit along with the income needed to afford a mortgage).
I was relieved, but now I'm nervous. We'd still like to get out of Woking, but it seems silly to move without knowing where I'll be working next. The real problem is: what if it happens again? What if we buy a place within the holy triange of mywork-hiswork-livelyplacetolive, and then one of us, for any reason, changed jobs? Say The Limey gets offered something better elsewhere? Or I get laid off again, or one of us decides on a change in career? I mean, no one stays at their job forever anymore, right? And I only know a few people who have been at their jobs for more than a handful of years. And even if we managed to get new jobs "in London," commuting from the outskirts of SW London to north London, for example, would take forever.
I've been good, and played by the rules. I got myself an education, like you're supposed to; I've "paid my dues" by moving cities, states, countries, continents for different jobs and lived with the attendant social wreckage; I've started a pension; I've reigned in my spending; I've saved up money; I've been responsible. It seems only fair that Life should meet me half-way. Where's my guarantee, dammit?