Part Two: The Summer House, the Squirrel Money, and the "High-Risk" Potter

When we last spoke, our mortgage offer for a new build in Sleaford had just been vaporized. The reason? "Fluctuating markets and the war in Iran." I mean, I knew my move to Sleaford was a big deal, but I didn’t realize it was geopolitical-crisis big. Thanks, Trump.

But honestly? Looking back, that mortgage being pulled was a total "Get Out of Jail Free" card.

The "Luxury" of Bare Concrete

I’d been staring at the Persimmon Homes brochure so long I was starting to hallucinate. Don't get me wrong, new builds look lovely in the glossy pictures, but then I started reading the fine print of what was not included.

It turns out, Persimmon’s definition of a "home" is more of a "fancy brick shell."

• Want grass? That’ll be £800 for the privilege of green stuff.

• Want floors? £3,500 for carpets and vinyl.

• Want to wash? You get a bath, but a shower will cost you an extra £1,200. I assume for that price, the water is infused with liquid gold.

Everything was basic plastic. If I wanted a plug socket that didn’t look like it came from a 1994 office cubicle, I had to pay a premium. It was going to take every penny we had, and we’d still be living in a building site without a shed. And for a potter, a life without a shed is just... a life covered in dust in the kitchen.

The RightMove Rabbit Hole

That night, feeling like a total failure, I did the only logical thing: I went back to RightMove to hurt my own feelings. I set the filters: Shared Ownership, Grantham, "Please let us afford this."

And then I saw it. 32 Alnwick Way.

It wasn't a new build; it was ten years old. But then I saw the photo of the garden. The Summer House. My jaw hit the floor. It was the spitting image of the AI-generated "dream studio" I’d been manifesting. It was a pottery studio, a film set, and a "leave-me-alone" zone all in one.

Even Hank (who usually reserves his enthusiasm for snacks) said he liked it. I hit "Enquire" with the speed of a woman possessed and went to bed.

The Blind Date

The next day, Demi from Pygott and Crone called. By Sunday morning, I was meeting the vendor, Michelle.

Usually, house viewings involve a stressed-out owner trying to hide a damp patch with a strategically placed fern. But Michelle was lovely. We got on like a house on fire (though, given the circumstances, perhaps "bonded like high-quality clay" is a better metaphor).

She was selling this place to fund her dream of a farmhouse and stables. She was moving for horses; I was moving for a shed. It was a match made in real estate heaven. I told her straight: "I’m going to do everything I can to get this house."

Unleashing the Squirrels

Now, the boring-but-terrifying bit: The Money.

Because this was a re-sale, we had to buy the 55% share Michelle had already "staircased" up to. We needed £105,000.

For years, I’ve been hoarding what I call my "Squirrel Money." It’s the "disaster/emergency/survival/don't-let-us-starve" fund. Well, this was the ultimate emergency. I opened the nut-jar. Not enough, we need a mortgage to get us over that £105,000 line...

But apparently, banks aren't a fan of a 50-year-old potter and a 72-year-old retired man. We are what the industry calls "high risk," or what I call "interesting people." Only Newcastle Building Society was brave enough to take us on.

The paperwork was soul-destroying. I had to provide everything short of a blood sample. I even had to take Hank down to the estate agent so she could verify he was a real human being. Jay, our mortgage advisor, had us on Teams calls holding our IDs up to our faces like we were filming a very budget version of Crimewatch.

The "Poor" Budget

Initially, the human underwriter looked at our accounts and offered us a mortgage of... £7,000. (I told you we were broke). 

But Jay—the patron saint of mortgages—managed to hustle them up to £26,000. It’s tight. It’s "squeaking-by-on-our-elbows" tight. But it works.

SOLD STC. Those are now my favorite four words in the English language.

The Ticking Clock

So, I’ve paid for a solicitor (£2,600 approx.), a conveyancer (still sounds like a type of kitchen appliance), a £400 search, and a £600 Level 2 survey.

We are currently in a state of "High Anxiety." Our Section 21 notice expires on May 27th. If this falls through, I’ll be heartbroken, homeless, and probably living in that summer house illegally.

But for now, I’m cleaning, I’m packing, and I’m praying the Newcastle Building Society doesn't suddenly decide that potters are a threat to national security.

This is our house. It has to be. To be continued...

Back to Part One