Buying a House in This Economy Is F%Cked
After all the stress, paperwork and scrounging around for loose change — it’s finally happening
We bought a house. I know, right, in this economy it seems impossible. Well, it almost was. We had to jump a billion and one hurdles, and it would’ve never been possible without our parents.
If you want to see what led us down this path, check out why we broke lease on our rental house.
For sixteen years, we’ve lived in the same lovely little suburb, twenty minutes north of Queensland’s capital, Brisbane. There’s no way we could’ve ever afforded to buy a house in aforementioned lovely little suburb. Carl and I moved out of home when we were eighteen and we’ve rented ever since. With rent and the cost of living, it’s almost impossible to save for a house.
Until the whole ordeal happened with our landlord, we never thought buying a house was an option. The renting crisis gave us little choice but to beg family for money. We had 5k in savings, well we actually had 10k but then Phoenix tore her ACL. I wrote about it here.
First, we went to Carl’s parents. They own their house outright and we asked if they’d be willing to go guarantor — it helped that we’d already buttered them up by giving them the grandson they’d always wanted.
They said yes.
Next came all the paperwork. I won’t bore you with the details because oh my Dog, there was so much paperwork. After abusing Mum countless times – why the fuck did she give me two middle names and a name that has more letters than the alphabet – we were finally approved for a loan.
Let’s not talk about how Carl and I put an offer on the very first house we saw, only to have our offer accepted and after signing the contract, realise that we overbid by about $30k. No, let’s not go there. But if we were to go there, long story short is we were about $2600 poorer for breaking contract. We pulled out the day of the offer going unconditional.
All of these new terms I’ve learnt in the last few months. Conditional. Unconditional. Settlement.
It’s a good thing we broke contract, the building and pest inspection we’d had done showed there was significant structural damage to the home.
Then came our dream home. Well, maybe not our dream home, but our dream land. The home on it was a bit of a shack — needing a lot of work — but it was in the suburb we’ve lived in for almost half our lives.
Because we’d spent our savings on Phoenix and on the house we no longer wanted, we were substantially short on our deposit.
In flew my guardian angel — my wonderful, whacky Dad lent us the money for our deposit. Technically, he’s not my dad by blood, but he is the father that raised me so I mostly refer to him as Dad or Jad.
We kind of expected the house to be a literal piece of shit. We also thought with our pre-approved loan amount, it would be way out of our price range. We were pre-approved for $485k and the median price of homes in our area is $675k. We would’ve had to move at least 50km north of the city, which meant we probably would’ve had to buy a gun or some mace at least. By the way, both are illegal in Australia. Those living 50km north of the city aren’t the most trustworthy people in the world if you know what I’m saying.
When we looked at our dream home, we were shocked at how well it had been kept. It had a new bathroom (within the last five years) and a new kitchen (within the last ten) — we’d definitely seen worse. The only thing was it was a little old (built in the 1960s), a little small, and made of fibro (inside and out).
But it was in our lovely little suburb. In the street we’d walked every single day for the last sixteen years — a mere 90m from where we are now. We didn’t think we were in for a shot. I did my best to build a relationship with the agent… maybe if he pitied me, we could get the house out of pure pity?
No Keeley. Money talks. We needed to go in with our highest offer. We needed to show we were serious.
Other people who were at the open home weren’t families. They were developers. Land in our suburb is valued at around $425k for 375m2. Our block was 508m2 AND had a livable house on it.
I told the agent our whole story, landlord and all, and that we’d lived in Bald Hills most of our lives. It seemed like we were maybe in for a chance.
We made the offer on Saturday. By Tuesday afternoon, I couldn’t wait any longer. I called him. He didn't answer.
I was sure we didn't have it.
Then on Thursday morning, he finally called me back. He told me he was still in negotiations with the owner, and not to give up hope yet. He was meeting with their daughter that afternoon and we’d know by tomorrow.
The couple selling their home was elderly, and their daughter was in charge.
Friday came and went and we still had heard nothing.
Well, that’s great. The daughter must’ve been money-hungry, and our offer of $485k (yep, told you we went in with everything) wasn’t enough.
Friday night, the depression hit.
‘Fuck it,’ I’d said to Carl. ‘Let’s just move to Ipswich.’
Ipswich was over an hour away from where we lived and was on the west side of town. We would’ve needed two guns, three knives and mace. It was rampant with crime but the houses were so much cheaper than in our area.