The Five Steps to Turning Thirty: Step 2 - You Should be on the Property Ladder
Sunlight filters through the slightly dirty patio door, creating patterns on the wooden floor as I stir my morning coffee, adding an extra sugar just because it is Monday. I yawn and tie my hair up into a messy bun with an old scrunchie, my eyes adjusting to the morning light, enjoying the early morning peace.
Peace that is torn apart from the sound of the seagulls calling out to each other across the marina, a noise that I don’t actually hate. It is still early, and I am enjoying my solitude, that is, until a rather loud shrill voice calls out from the bathroom. “Heledd,” I stay quiet, hoping that the voice will go away, “Heledd,” the voice is louder this time. I put my coffee down and prepare for the onslaught of whatever misdemeanour I may have committed in the last twenty-four hours. “It was your turn to buy toilet roll, I even put it on the communal calendar,” I sign inwardly and turn to face my flatmate. Angela is a force to be reckoned with. She is all sharp angles and power suits. She dresses for the life she wants and not the one she is currently living. In her case, she is currently an account’s assistant in a small, family run dog treat emporium not running a highly prestigious finance firm.
She looms in the doorway, all five foot eight of her. Her glossy blonde hair in a sleek ponytail, her acrylic tipped nails gently tap on the sticky countertop. Subtle clues that she is absolutely seething under her composed persona. “Sorry, Ange,” she grimaces at the use of her name being shortened, “I’ll pick some up after work today, I promise.” I grab a stray pen and scribble the reminder on my hand to prove my alliance to the cause. “Good,” she sniffs and walks to the fridge to take out her pre-prepared lunch and breakfast smoothie. She flicks the coffee machine on and fixes her travel mug.
Angela and I are the same age, yet I feel a million miles away from her. She creates mood boards in her spare time, constantly visualises her future, writes career plans and spends an obscene amount of time working on a spreadsheet that tracks all her spending and savings. She is the epitome of an adult. She is focused and together. She is on her way to great things, and I don’t begrudge her one little bit as she has worked her arse off for it. I just wish she wasn’t so God damn annoying.
“I’m seeing the mortgage adviser today,” my mind snaps back from my musings of how she kept that white blouse so white even after a few washes, “Oh yeah, that’s great!” This is step three in Angela’s plan of action; she once told me in great depth of for five-year plan one night over a bottle of wine. Right down to the step to achieve an orgasm.
“You really should be thinking about getting your foot on the property ladder Heledd,” she stirs oat milk into her freshly made latte, “You are thirty soon.” The way her voice emphasises my age gets my back up and my jaw tightens on reflex. The number of times I have been told to start thinking about purchasing a house is insane as if it is as easy as purchasing a slightly more expensive handbag to your usual Primark one. If I hear one more time from the older generation that in their day they bought their first house by the age of twenty-two, I might stamp my feet and throw a toddler like tantrum. Yes, I’m sure it was doable in your day Gladys when you bought your three-bed semi, bay fronted, double driveway home complete with garage for seventeen thousand pounds. Yet, in today’s current property climate, even a small, one bed flat with mould and the antichrist as a neighbour is disappointingly out of my reach. I mutter in agreement, not trusting myself with actual words, as Angela double checks her handbag and trotters off through the front door.
Kicking my bedroom door shut, I angrily dress for work, surveying the mess that is my room. Grubby walls lined with photographs that have faded in the sun, clothes litter the floor and my secret stash of chocolate biscuits under the bed. Hidden away, all ready for my evening treat while I watch documentaries about serial killers. This is my life, I think sadly to myself. Twenty-nine years old, living with a woman I am not particularly fond of, living paycheck to paycheck and watching everyone else I know and love live their lives. I feel trapped. Trapped by crappy pay and a world that is hurtling along at an alarming pace, so much so that one single person simply cannot keep up.
Rubbing yesterday’s mascara from under my eyes, I grab my keys and head to the front door. As I am locking up, the door opposite opens and I instantly close my eyes in mortification. I have, until now, successfully managed to avoid my neighbour after the balcony debacle, yet here he is. I can feel him smirking before I even turn around. His light hair is ruffled in that sleepy morning way, his eyes again linger over my body while he leans his incredibly tall torso against the door frame, raising his coffee mug to his lips. “Morning,” his voice is slightly higher than I anticipated. His eyes crinkle and runs his free hand across his unshaven face, clearly delighting in my discomfort. Assuming the facade of a haughty neighbour, I reply a tight good morning with a small nod of my head. Not once, in my entire existence, have I never nodded at anyone in the form of a greeting. A small laugh escapes his lips and I make my way downstairs, my body cringing with my inability to function like a normal adult.
Written by Grace Collins
I work in HR and a part time MA student in English Literature. Avid reader and writes book reviews on Instagram @gracecollinswrites when not walking the puppy.
