The first time I ever spoke to my wife — then a single 20-something TV producer at The 7PM Project — she casually explained that she lived in an inner-city one-bedder.
I assumed she rented.
I was wrong.
Then I asked if she'd bought it with her ex-boyfriend.
Then I hinted she must have wealthy parents.
Hold up, dear reader, I have to call time out for the next paragraph.
See, as I write this, our sons are still reading Golden Books. But one day they'll read these words. So boys, here's a life lesson from me to you: Daddy was acting like a chauvinist pig, and Mummy was a smart young woman who didn't need a man for her financial plan.
Alright, let's get back into it.
On one of our first dates, Liz cooked me dinner using a stove she'd found abandoned on the footpath. Her brother had picked it up, spruced it up and installed it. After she told me about her ‘find', I proceeded to eat my roast chicken very slowly. Frankly, I was a little worried that a homeless dude may have found it first and used it as his ensuite. ‘Obviously, I scrubbed it clean, Scott', she scolded (for the first, but certainly not the last, time).
For the rest of the evening we sat romantically on cushions, because there was only one chair (and we weren't that friendly yet), and I spent the evening admiring her DIY paintwork.
It wasn't a place I would have bought ...