Friday, January 3, 2025

Sandra, our cleaning lady is here this morning so I'm at my desk trying to keep out of her way.  We set this cleaning arrangement up for Friday because I am normally at the Writing group, but I don't do that any more so I find myself in the way.  While the weather is fine, I can sit outside but you can't depend on good weather in Tasmania.  The weather, in fact, is beautiful this morning and I suspect we will be outside most of the day.

Today's story is one I wrote a while ago but I didn't date it.  No matter, here it is - Six Minutes.

SIX MINUTES

“It’s only six minutes to the station,” the Real Estate agent said, clearly struggling to find something positive to say about this sad-looking little cottage in an out-of-the-way suburb.  The cottage was weatherboard, with a tin roof. The boards were tired and more than a lick of paint would be needed to put some life back into this old-timer.

Funny – that phrase ‘lick of paint’ always reminds me of an old Fawlty Towers episode where a dodgy builder, o’Riley, was trying to convince Basil to hire him to do some alterations to the hotel.  He outlined the job, ‘knock a hole in the wall here, tidy up the edges, lick o’ paint, and it’s done’.  In my head, ‘lick o’ paint’ was always said in an Irish accent.  Was this a subliminal message to me?  Was my subconscious trying to tell me that there might be something dodgy about this deal that I am too tired to recognise?

We’ve been married for only a couple of years and I’m not yet earning a reasonable wage.  We’re expecting our first child so my wife’s income for the foreseeable future is not guaranteed but continuing to rent is certainly not going to get us ahead and everything we pay to a landlord is money we’ll never see again.

One part of me wants to forget the whole thing, stay in our flat, pay the rent and forget about home ownership, but my more sensible half demands I think about the future.  I can hear the slogan in my head: a small sacrifice now ensures a comfortable future.  But, is it a small sacrifice?  The mortgage repayment is going to be about the same as the rent we’re paying, and there will be rates, and insurance, and expenses for repairs and improvements - a lick o’ paint is never cheap.  These are the times I wish I’d been born to rich parents.  Life would have been so much easier.

I have to drag my brain to consider another aspect of this dilemma.  If we buy this house, my weekends will be taken up with house-related activities.  The lawn will need mowing regularly and I’ll probably have to reduce the number of golf games I play.  That may not be such a bad thing and, in any case it’s probably time I gave up my membership of the Golf Club.  My wife has been gently hinting that the money I spend on this activity, not to mention the amount I spend at the bar afterwards, is an indulgence and could be expended more wisely.  After all, a baby’s needs are insatiable and when he – I assume it will be a boy – arrives, my golf-playing days will be no more than a happy memory.

I’m starting to realise that my life is changing rapidly and I’m not sure I’m adapting to the changes as well as I might.  It seems only yesterday I was a carefree, self-contained bachelor, with no-one to consider but myself.  But now I’m in a situation where an unborn child has more rights than I have.

I have to give myself a shake.  My wife and I are young, energetic and resilient.  No doubt, things will go wrong from time to time in the future but we know we can deal with any eventuality.  The house is not wonderful but it’s a start and we will have great fun turning it into our dream home.  This suburb is a bit further away from my work and I’ll have to get used to travelling by train but, after all, it’s only six minutes to the station.