House’s homes (and party pics)

I drove past the first house I ever bought earlier this week. Ah, memories!

It’s on a busy road in Petersham, opposite a petrol station, which made it nice and cheap (there was also the small matter of a bikie gang having established a clubhouse over the back fence, but I didn’t discover THAT until after I’d exchanged contracts …).

I was 26 at the time, and I’d saved up $10,000 as a deposit on the place, which was on the market for the princely sum of $170,000.

When I Instagrammed a pic of the house, one of my younger friends couldn’t believe I’d angled my way into the Sydney property market at such a tender age.

But I was born with the property bug. The moment I arrived in the big city, I was desperate to own a piece of it. I would plead – in vain – with friends to go halves with me in apartments.

Husband and I had been dating for around three years when I bought my Petersham pad. He “wasn’t ready for that sort of commitment” so I pretended for the bank’s nervy sake that my sister was my co-mortgagee. Husband moved in and never left, so the sister-on-the-mortgage palaver ended up being a little infuriating, but anyways …

Oh the parties we had at Petersham! The “Get Merry On Kerry” ones, where I’d create vast arrays of hors d’evers with the contents of my Kerry Packer Christmas hampers, were particularly legendary.

I called that first place Ruby … in anticipation of the pre-named daughter I would one day have. Yep, I’m quite the long-term planner …

I also did a $35,000 reno on the place that rocked – kitchen, bathroom, deck … I have a knack with the budget makeovers.

A few years down the track I was itching to get my hands on a investment property, so I picked up a one-bedder in East Sydney. It was a snappily renovated little number, a bit on the tiny side, in a company title building. As that tends to put namby-pamby people off I scored it for the bargain price of around $190,000, I think, after holding the bank manager’s hand through the process while he angsted, ummmed and ahhhed. Eventually, I gave him a figurative slap and said: “Yes, yes, I know, I know! But what do I have to DO to make an offer on the place today?”

He looked rather startled and told me. Deal done.

I rented the apartment out to a friend, then Husband and I decided to sell Petersham and move into the place ourselves. LOVED it. I was literally a hop and a skip across Hyde Park to work. While living there I got a job offer to edit Singapore CLEO, so it seemed sensible to nab another piece of Sydney real estate before we left.

At least I think that’s how it went … my memory .. dodgy.

Anyways, there was this company title place I quite fancied at Bondi. Husband had given it the thumbs down so we hadn’t gone to the auction. But an equally property-fixated friend called me the next morning to say it had passed in. Husband was being retrenched that afternoon – we strongly suspected – so time was of the essence. We made an offer, it was accepted, then we hit up our bank manager and suggested with raised eyebrows and nudges that it would be best to call Husband’s pay office to confirm his wage before midday.

Voila. Bondi pad scored.

We swanned off to Singapore for two years and bought an investment property over the internet in Merewether, Newcastle, that we christened the “Asbestos Palace” (before and after pics above). That’s because we discovered afterwards that it was built almost entirely from … asbestos. My mother cried when she first saw it. They weren’t happy tears. A builder friend of mum’s gave it a makeover co-ordinated by me via email and ta-da!

Fortunately Merewether turned out to be a happy tears purchase in the end – those four one-bedroom apartments rented their socks off.

When we got back to Sydney we cooled our heels in East Sydney, were disappointed to discover a nightclub had opened shop across the road, and moved into our Bondi dream apartment. LOVED it. Husband would pop down to Bondi Icebergs a few days a week for a swim, I’d go for morning walks on the boardwalk and to Tamarama Beach. Bliss. OK, all those backpackers partying and leaving their old mattresses on the sidewalk were a bit of a bore, but otherwise it was a very happy time in our newly married lives.

I entertained myself by knocking out a wall, installing shutters, built-in wardobes and an IKEA kitchen, painted a few feature walls, and rubbed my hands together with fiscal glee when the place switched from company to strata title …

Then I got pregnant and it was quickly apparent that living somewhere with 50 steps to the front door wasn’t going to cut it with a pram.

So we sold the Bondi dream pad and search and search and searched for our first family home. And we couldn’t find a freaking thing we could afford. Even after selling East Sydney and Merewether to free up more cash.

In desperation at the 8-months-pregnant mark and in furious nesting mode, I took us to see an apartment in a crumbling sandstone mansion in Hunters Hill.

I quelled my deep doubts about the place and we spent an insane amount of money buying the hopelessly romantic but not particularly practical pad. And then we sold it for a loss a few years later (after being accustomed to making vast profits) after I finally admitted I’d made a terrible mistake and crumbling mansion living wasn’t really my thing.

Then we searched and we searched and we searched for another place. And we couldn’t find a thing we could freaking afford.

So I took us to see our current house. It was out of our price range and very suburban in style (the kind of place your parents would live in). It didn’t have any of the things I wanted – grassy back yard, garage, laundry. But it was huge and we were running out of options so we bought it. The pic above doesn’t do it justice. While I’ve always hated those dinky hedges, the interior looks pretty spesh now it’s been painted white rather than forest green, there’s a lovely new kitchen and it has the most amazing glass extension out the back.

And I’m ready to move on again. Hell, I was ready to move on before the marriage fell apart. I get such itchy feet when it comes to real estate and we could never afford to joosh the place more (those threesome tiles in the master bathroom REALLY need to go) which is always my fall-back property position if I’m angsty.

I wonder where I’ll end up next? (Confession: I’m a little pissed off about taking a backward step after how much work I’ve put into climbing the property ladder over the years.)

I’m thinking about an apartment. Maintaining a house isn’t really my thing, which is weird for someone who loves property so much. I’m not one for pottering in the garden or housework.

When we first arrived home from a year in New York – where Husband won a scholarship at Columbia University – we lived in an apartment in North Sydney for three months. Absolutely freaking loving it. Especially the garbage shute at the end of the corridor.

But let’s see what I can afford. That’s the annoying bloody thing – even apartments cost stupid money these days.

I’ll keep you posted.

Tell me about your first house …

Song of the day: Rose Royce “Love don’t live here anymore”

PS And here are some happy snaps from some of our parties … I swear, I could have kept wonkily scanning indefinitely …