Part One: The Great Eviction & The Invisible Ticking Clock

I thought I’d better take a moment to write down the absolute circus that has been my life for the last few weeks. Consider this a diary for "Future Me," a cautionary tale for the curious, and a survival guide for anyone currently trying to find a home without selling a kidney.

So... let’s start at the beginning. Part One: Getting Served.

14 Years of Bliss (and Neglect)

We’ve been renting our cottage here in Lincolnshire for 14 years. It’s been lovely. I’ve enjoyed the village life, the cats have enjoyed their freedom, and I’ve enjoyed a garden that I can potter about in.

I won’t say much about our landlady, mainly because I don’t know her life story, but I will say she hasn’t raised the rent much over the decade. We were lucky. Of course, she also hasn't picked up a paintbrush or a wrench to maintain the place since the late 2000s, but hey—you win some, you lose some.

The "Kick in the Guts" Tuesday

Everything was fine until Tuesday, March 24th, at 11:00 am. There was a knock at the back door. I opened it to find two letting agents standing there looking official and slightly apologetic. They handed Hank the Section 21 (a) papers.

Translation: "You have 60 days. Shoo."

Now, I know it’s not our house. I fully get that she has the right to take it back. But after 14 years, getting the legal minimum notice with zero forewarning felt like a massive kick in the teeth. Or the guts. Actually, let's go with both.

The Rental Market: A Horror Story

Trying to rent in today's market after a decade of "cheap living" is like waking up from a coma and realizing chocolate bars now cost £5.

• The Finances: I’m a potter. I make things out of mud. It’s not exactly a "Wall Street" salary. Hank is 73 and retired. His pension is... let’s just say it’s not buying us a villa in Tuscany.

• The Rules: The "eligibility criteria" these days are wild. You need to prove you earn a fortune or find a guarantor who is willing to sign away their firstborn. We were told we could only apply for places up to £775 pcm. In this economy? That gets you a cardboard box with a nice view of a bin.

I have three non-negotiables: The cats, Hank’s physical needs (no Everest-sized stairs), and a place for my kiln. The thought of "hiding" two cats and a small industrial oven from a landlord is a level of stress I am simply too old for.

The "Lifeline" (and the Facebook Desert)

My neighbor Keeley (a nurse) got served at the same time. We stood there stunned, like two deer in headlights. Then my friend Claire sent a link for Shared Ownership.

For the uninitiated: Shared Ownership is a government scheme where you buy a slice of a house and rent the rest. It sounds great, but the Housing Association looks at your bank account like a suspicious detective. If they see you’ve saved £30,000 for a rainy day, they’ll ask why you aren't spending it on the front porch. It’s a delicate financial dance and I don't know the steps.

I also checked Facebook Marketplace. The rental map for Grantham looks like a post-apocalyptic desert. At one point, we genuinely considered moving in with my mum in Lancashire. We didn't tell her, obviously. I'm not sure she'd appreciate the kiln in her guest room.

Just as I was about to give up and start looking for comfortable hedges to live under, a message pinged from my friend Val, a fellow potter. She’d spotted a listing on a local Facebook group—a bungalow that sounded like the housing equivalent of a "no questions asked" back-alley deal.

It was £1,000 a month, but with a spicy twist: No agencies. No credit checks. No paperwork. Just a good old-fashioned "word of mouth" agreement. Basically, it was the rental version of buying a Rolex from a guy in a trench coat behind a Greggs.

Naturally, I went to investigate. And honestly? It was gorgeous. Rural vibes, an overgrown garden that the cats would have conquered like furry Vikings, and—the holy grail—a shed with actual power for my kiln. Plus, zero stairs for Hank to wrestle with. It was perfect.

But then the "What Ifs" started doing laps in my brain. A grand a month is a lot of money to hand over on a pinky promise. Without a legal contract, we’d have about as much security as a sandcastle at high tide. If the landlord suddenly decided they wanted the place back to house their prize-winning llamas, we’d be out on our ears by Tuesday.

My gut told me that "living on a wing and a prayer" is a great song lyric but a terrifying housing strategy. I’m too old to be a high-stakes rental gambler. There had to be something better—and ideally, something involving an actual piece of paper that says I’m allowed to stay!

The "Dream" House

I eventually found Holdingham Grange. A massive development in Sleaford, which included shared ownership homes. I met a guy named Richard, saw a plot with French doors and a decent garden, and I was sold.

I even used Gemini AI to help me draft a "Shed Proposal." I needed a "Shed Fund" for a fully insulated, fancy-pants garden office for my pottery. Richard said yes. The mortgage advisor gave us a "Mortgage in Principle" for £40k. We signed the papers. I was so excited I actually started marking out the room sizes on my current floor with tape and placing furniture.

And... Scene.

Then came Friday, April 17th. The broker called.

"The mortgage offer has been pulled," he said. Apparently, between global crises and the war in Iran, lenders decided that a 73-year-old and a potter were "risky."

The floor-tape house was gone. The dream was cancelled.

While I was busy having a financial breakdown, I also had to tackle the physical one: clearing out 14 years of accumulated "stuff."

Everyone knows the drill. You start with three optimistic piles: Keep, Bin, and Charity Shop. By the fourth hour, a fourth pile emerges: "Sit on the Floor and Cry."

I’ve spent the last few weeks performing a one-woman reenactment of Hoarders. I’ve made five harrowing trips to the local tip and the charity shop, with my car sagging under the weight of clothes I haven’t fit into since the Blair administration and "junk" I was convinced I’d use one day.

I even reached peak desperation and hauled my two market stalls and Hank’s beloved golf clubs down to the local scrap metal merchant. I handed over a decade of hobbies and hard work, and he handed me... £10.

I’m not saying I expected to retire on the proceeds, but I’ve had more expensive sandwiches. At this rate, I only need to sell another 4,000 sets of golf clubs and we’ll have that deposit back!

I’m leaving Part One here before I start crying into my tea again. 🤣

A huge thank you to everyone who has supported my eBay auctions and sent kind messages. You’ve literally paid my bills this month and kept me from running away to live in a hedge. You lot are fantastic. Stay tuned for Part Two... if I survive it!

If you’re planning on applying for a mortgage, you’ll need to assemble a digital "Dossier of Despair." I keep mine in a folder on my laptop, backed up to the cloud, and guarded by a digital dragon.

Here is the shopping list for your soul:

• Proof of Earnings: If you’re self-employed like me, you need 2–3 years of tax summaries. The magic document is the SA302—HMRC’s way of saying, "We know exactly how little you made selling pots." If you’re a normal person with a job, three months of payslips will do.

• The "Every Little Helps" Pile: Any benefits or pensions. Print the statements. In our case, it was Hank’s pension, which the bank viewed with the same skepticism you'd give a lottery ticket found in a hedge.

• Bills, Bills, Bills: Two or three utility bills with your name on them. It’s the only time in your life you’ll be excited to see the electric bill.

• The Electoral Roll: If you aren’t on it, get on it. If the government doesn't know where you live so they can bother you for a vote, the bank won’t give you a penny.

• The Credit Score "Glow-Up": Do a soft credit check. If your score looks like a temperature in the Arctic, try to fix it. This is basically Tinder for banks—try to look as attractive (and boring) as possible.

• Photo ID: A passport or driver’s license. If you don't have one, get one now. Without it, you basically don't exist.

• 6 Months of Bank Statements: Yes, the bank will see that you spent £45 on a vintage cat onesie at 2 AM. There is no hiding.

• The "Where’d You Get That?" Deposit: You need proof of your deposit. If your Auntie Mabel is gifting you the cash, she has to write a letter explicitly stating it’s a gift, not a loan. Banks hate the idea of you having friends or family who actually like you.

• The Debt Parade: Details of car finance, loans, or child payments. Anything that makes your bank account leak money monthly.

• OCD Formatting: Consistency is king. If one bill says "Flat A" and another says "Ground Floor Flat," the bank’s computer will have a nervous breakdown and stall your application for three weeks. Pick a name and stick to it!

• Digital vs. Physical: Most lenders accept PDFs now, but keep the original paper documents in a fireproof safe (or under your mattress). Technology is great until a mortgage advisor demands a "certified copy" of a document you haven't seen since 2012.

Expert Guide Tip: This process is basically a financial colonoscopy. Have all your tax documents ready to go, you don't want to be hunting through  those shoeboxes for receipts.

Dream shed plans.