At 33, I’ve done something I consider myself very fortunate to be able to do: I own my own property and have said goodbye to landlords, rent hikes and flatmates.
The apartment I bought was no stranger to me. I had rented a carbon copy in the same building eight years ago and loved it so much I jumped at the chance to own one for myself.
I loved being right in the middle of the city in a beautiful modern building that, at less than 10 years old, boasted such facilities as a gym, secure swipe access and swimming pool.
However, my excitement turned to dread in my first weekend living there.
At 5am, I was woken to the sound of a woman screaming. She called a guy every name under the sun, yelled about needing her drugs and became so violent she wrenched the door handle off her front door. The gaping hole in the door became a daily reminder of what happened every time I walked past it.
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