KEY POINTS:
I can remember the exact moment the bank owned me. We were driving to some friends' bach for the weekend and I was having the usual moan about not owning a bach, not marrying a man whose family owns a bach, not ever likely to own a bach
and the impossibility of being a true Kiwi without a bach.
My husband gave me his "you're being a brat" look and said: "If we paid off the mortgage in five years you could buy as many bloody baches as you want."
"Really?" I responded like a little girl whose Dad has finally said she can have a pony.
"Yup."
For the rest of the drive I was lost in my "bach fantasy". The old cottage with possums on the roof, a wood-fired stove, old lino, a corrugated-iron water tank and an old safe to keep the butter in.
"You know what this means," said my husband, rudely interrupting the bit where I ride a retired racehorse down to the Four Square for the milk. "No travelling for five years, less time spent at SPQR doing a very good impression of being a majority shareholder, and we'll need to go on a budget."
"Whatever."
I was no longer listening as I was busy hauling in six large snapper and cooking them in my smokehouse.
Mortgage payments were increased that very Monday and we nestled down into that warm, comfy feeling that comes with being on a budget and feeling smug about approaching a debt-free life.
That was a year ago. Then I sat in a church shedding tears as a man who had brought me laughs and reality checks was farewelled.
I heard what they were saying about Phil Armstrong, but the one thing which stuck in my mind and caused my first funeral epiphany was his age. Fifty-five.
I turned to my husband and realised he was 51. And that was it. As we drove home from the funeral the mortgage was history.
"In four years, should you die," I announced sternly, "I would rather remember our last four years together as having spent time with you travelling all over the world, than patting myself on the back for paying off the mortgage."
"Good point," said the bach-promiser.
"And who cares about the bach anyway? We've got a caravan."
Which is technically true, although the land the caravan used to live on got washed away in a global warming storm so our caravan is a refugee for the moment.
The next day, as if somewhere in the cosmos my epiphany had been heard and processed, came the newspaper and an advertisement for a lovely cruise in the Mediterranean.
"Book it," I commanded.
"Stuff the mortgage," he chimed in. I think Phil would have approved.
One problem remained, however, and that was telling people. My parents met the epiphany announcement with guarded enthusiasm, which is what they do when their mad daughter has a need for unconditional support.
The older kids quickly volunteered to move in and look after their youngest sister without mentioning the words "party", "Sky TV" or "free downloads" loud enough for us to hear.
The youngest sister, however, was not impressed, as she has a tendency to appreciate people who stick to their guns. "I thought the rule was no travel until the mortgage is paid off," she reminded us with a severe look.
"I can't keep up with you guys," she sighed, shaking her head and wandering off to find some consistency in her life before returning with some bad news.
"You're going to be away during the school holidays," she said, hands on hips, creased brow.
The two bad parents looked at each other shamefaced.
"You and your epiphanies," said my husband.
"You and your 'stuff the mortgage'," I responded.
"It's okay," said our daughter. "I'll cope", before adding, with the gravitas of a child recently orphaned by several world wars, "I always do."
