Tell me about rising mortgage rates. I was one of the 18 percent.
Homeowners could face up to 6% of their repayments by spring next year, according to dire predictions. A dreadful jump that could see millions of peers having to consider selling.
Like feel bairns, PM Lizzie and her quasi-Chancellor Kwasi dreamed up their ruse in secret, branded it a ‘fiscal event’ to smuggle it past the budget police, then chuckled, waiting for all the caboodle be kaput. Hit.
They rewarded the rich and punished the poor. Where is Robin Hood when we need him?
My mortgage has long been paid off, but I deeply sympathize with anyone facing a sickening monthly hike. My first man and I bought oor hoosie in 1974. It hadn’t been lived in for seven years so we got it for a song and had to empty it. However, in the early 1980s we raised the mortgage to pay for an extension, just when inflation ran wild and the rate hit a whopping 18.45%.
Fortunately, we were both working; we made it, but millions of others didn’t. Thank you very much, Mrs Thatcher, whom I suspect to be the model for Mrs Truss.
Come the 1990s; new man, exorbitant new housing, rates still above 10%, each month paying much more interest than the loan.
Northeast or North Pole?
Oldies like me may have paid off their mortgages by now, but fixed or fixed pensions face a sair fecht this winter. One of the most authoritative and sensible among us in contact for years has set up something like an oldiesnet in a WhatsApp to motivate us to lower our bills.
Aboot 10 of us were in the running to see fa’d be the first and last to turn on their central heating. I was second, having had to press the button on a Sunday tea time three weeks ago, when I went to Codona with my quine and little feet, frozen to the giblets watching them spend the three hours of their life. (The bairns insisted that I warm up on the pirate ship. I declined, suspecting their motives.)
All the app chat for the past two weeks has been about how to stave off the impending freeze. From the skinny goonies we sweated in during the heatwave to the flannel pajamas.
The big question is what time to change into full arctic evening attire to beat the heaters? I kid you not, some of my ladies are stripped and bundled up even before Grumpian News at 6 p.m.
Delivery guy, dressed in a T-shirt and shorts like it’s July again
I’m more of a 8pm girl. But Monday was particularly chilly. Beginning to shiver, I kicked off my campaign against the heat around 6:30 p.m., wrapping Masellie in a huge, down, hooded dressing gown that I had purchased on Amazon a long time ago but had always deemed too much. silly to wear. Spik aboot toastie.
Natch, comes a ringing on the 7 p.m. bell. A delivery man, dressed in a T-shirt and shorts as if it were still July. He looked so shocked. Like he accidentally delivered it to the North Pole.
Moreen Simpson is a former deputy editor of the Evening Express and The Press & Journal, and began her career as a journalist in 1970.
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[UK Government rewarded the rich and punished the poor]