Owing to my Methuselah-like age, the only mortgage I had been offered to date was an equity release one which didn't seem like a good idea as if I wanted to move house, they exacted a penalty of anything between £12,000 and £25,000. As I am serial mover, ready to bolt at the faintest squeak of a footstep upstairs or EastEnders on too loud on next-door's telly, that seemed a punishment too far. Surely there had to be something else out there?
I popped into my bank on Monday (Barclays, since you ask) and enquired about the possibility of a mortgage. I was ushered upstairs and granted an appointment with a 'community banker' who seemed to be a Jill-of-all-trades. After hearing how much cash I had and how much I'd like to borrow, she hammered her computer, which said no. I was too old, their age limit for paying back a mortgage was 70. I am 73.
Downcast, I prepared to shamble off when she said, "I'll just go and ask one of our mortgage advisers." I sat down again.
A few minutes later she was back, beaming. "I've just been told that we have lifted our age restrictions so finding you a mortgage won't be a problem," she said. I could have hugged her.
She made me another appointment for today, when I had to take in ID (hardly necessary, I would have thought; I've only banked there for 50 years!) plus proof of my pension income. Then I was sent away to have a coffee for 15 minutes till the mortgage adviser was free.
I slipped off, got a refund on an ill-advised pair of shoes that I'd bought on Sunday, exchanged an even more ill-advised dress, that hung on me like a tepee on a tent-pole, for a long, wafty cardigan) and returned, expecting to be ushered in to see the adviser.
To my surprise. I was greeted by the same community banker - we were best buddies by now - and informed that, as I only needed a small loan to value, I had been approved for a £75,000 mortgage and could have it over 17 years.
Three cheers, hang out the flags and crack open the bubbly! And somebody hug that lovely lady for me.
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