Seeking a cosy hostel, for 17 cats, four collies ... and me.(News; Opinion, Columns)

Byline: Liz Jones

IDON'T think I can take any more bad news. I've had my property on the market since last summer without a single offer, and now stamp duty is set to rise by one per cent on Wednesday for properties like mine. This will further dampen the market and make finding a buyer nigh on impossible.

My house, which I worked for 32 years to buy, is now worth less than I paid for it, despite the fact that I've spent more than [pounds sterling]300,000 of heavily taxed income doing it up. If I do ever sell, I will have to pay off my mortgage because the Halifax won't allow me a new one at a new property, which means I will be left with nothing, after 30-plus years on the property ladder.

Banks and building societies have zero tolerance, you see, which is something we don't seem to have when it comes to boys who shoot children or policemen who miss vital clues.

The Halifax won't take into account my flawless track record, or the fact that I have missed only a single payment to pay wages to the small army of local people who were stopping my investment falling down.

Anyhow. I tried to sort out this problem last autumn by very bravely making an appointment at my local branch in Taunton. (I have the date - September 28 - etched in my diary and my skull, mainly because I got a parking ticket while I was inside sobbing.) I spoke to a young woman called Laura. She started tapping away at her computer. The amount I owed had not gone down by one penny in the five years since I took out the mortgage, even though I pay a small fortune each month.

'You owe an extra [pounds sterling]40,000 because of the way we calculate the interest,' she said. 'Oh no, maybe that isn't right,' she added, while I was having a heart attack. 'I'm not used to all these zeros.' She sent me away, saying she would phone me with a decision. 'Even a small mortgage would help,' I said.

'I don't think I can live in a caravan with four dogs and 17 cats, especially if it only has one exit.' She did phone me after a week or so to say the underwriters (who in God's name are these people?) needed more information.

I filled in several forms.

She then phoned to say she needed bank statements going back three months. I got them out of their sealed envelopes and posted them to her. I then got a phone call at the beginning of this year. 'We need to do a financial review, but I don't have time now. I will call you back.' She never did. So, although I pay 11 times the Bank of England base rate, and am therefore a valuable customer, six months later I still do not have a decision.

HOW can people even attempt to get themselves out of financial cul-de-sacs if the people manning these grabby institutions do not communicate or follow through? (Unless, that is, you miss a payment, in which case they will call you very early on a Sunday morning, and charge you [pounds sterling]15 every time they do so.) On Friday, I heard the news that the number of people on housing benefits could double due to job losses, home repossession and so on, just as the Government's caps on rents takes effect. There has been much talk of ghettos, but I've never been able to afford to live in Primrose Hill or Hampstead.

If you have no money, you live somewhere cheap. When I first worked in London I lived in Stockwell, probably the most crime-ridden, certainly the most dingy part of the capital. I should have just got pregnant as a teenager instead of studying for exams, and applied for a council flat. At least someone else would lag the roof and fix the guttering.

Home ownership is a big fat con, the biggest of the modern age. According to the experts, home-owners aren't throwing away money like they would by paying rent. They are investing in an asset that will only go up in value. If we work hard, and pay off the mortgage, then we will be sitting pretty.

But long-term returns are modest, and generally less than if you invest in stocks and shares. Every time I see one of those 'mortgage interest rate time bomb' ads on the internet my blood runs cold.

In desperation, I phoned Laura again on Friday morning, using the direct number for the branch. A man with a distinctly non-West Country accent answered. 'Is that the Taunton branch?' I squeaked. 'This is not a branch at all,' he said. 'This is the branch support team. How can I help? But first of all I need to ask you a few security questions. Now, what is your postcode?' Aaarrgh!!

I wonder if privately owned, tax-funded hostels will take four collies and 17 cats?