Once in my life I had more money than I needed. Having a cushion should have promoted peace of mind and a feeling of security, but instead it caused me perpetual worries. Should I: leave it in an account where it was shrinking daily because of minuscule interest rates? That is plain silly. Gamble it? I don’t have the courage. Invest it? I don’t have the courage. Spend it? I don’t have any great needs. I didn’t sleep well at night…
My solution was to buy a flat to let. This was in the early days of the Recession, when property was still regarded as a sensible investment, and I was pleased to have the financial future safely tucked up in a decent residence.
Fast forward 7 years. The property is a hovel, overspilling rubbish bags on landings invite strange creatures to feast and multiply, lack of maintenance results in unpleasant threats from the Council, and general change from owners to tenants has propelled my nest-egg into an abyss of filthy misery.
Selling was a nightmare. Had I not had the cheerful help of that rare creature, an unfailingly supportive estate agent, I might have ended up giving it away and been grateful to have it off my hands.
Recently the sale was concluded at less than half of the purchase price. But here’s the rub: that decimated amount gives me more pleasure than any money has ever done, and I can go to bed at night and expect good night’s sleep.
What did I say a little while ago about money and me having opposite polarity? I feel SO much better being back to just having enough for what I need and nothing that requires me to ‘manage’.
I managed money, property, systems and people for most of my working life, and I enjoyed it. But retirement is the best ‘job’ I have ever had, and I don’t plan to flex my professional muscles ever again.
My world 