Housebound/Earthbound

Preparations are afoot to buy a house. Since my mental state is usually set to lackadaisical and procrastinating (yes, my GRE wordlist is on full display), I have a niggling doubt that I will never get to the stage of ownership. It seems vastly simpler to pay the rent as opposed to entering the world of bank loans, interest rates and mortgages whose language seems more indecipherable than GRE word lists. Worse, everyone assumes you know about these things when all along you feel a mild sense of panic that leaves you unable to calculate the effect of the 8.75% versus the 8.5% interest rate at short notice. Further, I find myself in danger of being infected with the property snobberies of some Australians for I find myself making lists of suburbs I do not want to live in and agonising over not choosing a house (as opposed to an apartment). This is a change from the days when I was happy to live anywhere as long as it was reasonably spacious and got me to work fast. For e.g. I don't quite remember fretting about the lack of a cafe or bookshop at Kandivili where I lived for 2 years and which didn't, as far as I can tell, impair my intellectual life by virtue of the lack of these things. It was in fact a charming existence amongst empty flats and unlit streets and the place where I wrote all my poems before the muse deserted me. There is also a sense of permanence about house ownership which completely lacks the romance of temporary accommodations. One feels compelled to do up the house as opposed to making do and before long one has settled into the housewifely preoccupations of choosing furniture and crockery. But my possessions have increased and for the past 5 years they have uncomplainingly remained in boxes that never see the light of day. I tell myself that they, if not I, need a resting place.