He didn't get where he is today by stealing somebody else's catchphrase.

You belong to us now, Dave.

Give or take a day, it's been a year since I moved into my place. My place. Not Desmond Tutu's place, not Haile Silassie's and not Mr Magnolia Landlord's, but mine. Each night, I rub my hands in glee, cackling a maniacal laugh that puts the fear of god into the woodworm. The novelty hasn't worn off yet.

Really, it's only nearly mine - I've got the bank to pay off first. This is all new to me. On a yearly basis, the bank you've got your mortgage with send out a statement telling you how much you still owe them, a reminder that it's not your house at all. No, not one bit. And it won't be yours until you retire.

During the course of the year, I've paid 6,000 pounds in mortgage payments. Because I'm right at the beginning of my mortgage, this has paid off the princely sum of 650 quid from the capital I owe. Wowzer. The remaining 5,350 quid was pure interest. And this was from a financial establishment that offered a low interest rate. It's enough to make you think that the nice men at the Concrete Boot Loan Company would probably have offered you a better deal.

Ah well, 1 year down - 29 to go.
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