Let’s talk about mortgages. Or as I like to call them: The longest, most expensive commitment you’ll ever make without so much as a candlelit dinner first.

Now, I don’t mean to sound bitter, but there’s something intrinsically odd about the fact that I, a relatively functioning adult who still occasionally has to Google whether lentils go off, have been entrusted with a six-figure loan on the assumption that I am competent enough to handle it. At the same time, I also didn’t like how much scrutiny I had to endure to get that loan. After having spent years been the breadwinner for my landlord’s family, I think I earned the right to get a £300,000 loan with all the scrutiny of a child handing out imaginary coins at a tea party.

A mortgage is basically a financial blood pact you make with a bank, who in turn rewards your servitude with a semi-detached house in Oldham and crippling anxiety. You’ll be paying it off until retirement—or until the sun explodes, whichever comes first.

And what a name: mortgage. It sounds like the villain in a Dickens novel. “Oh no, here comes Mr. Mortgage, come to repossess Tiny Tim’s crutches and foreclose on the family goose!”

Let’s not overlook the delightful etymology. “Mortgage” literally comes from the Old French mort gage meaning “death pledge.” I mean, who wouldn’t want to sign one of those? Nothing says “dream home” like an agreement that linguistically resembles a funeral pact.

And the hoops one jumps through to earn this death pledge! You must prove, beyond any reasonable doubt, that you are the most boringly reliable person in the United Kingdom. You have to provide bank statements, payslips, proof of address, and a written declaration from the Pope confirming that you haven’t bought a Frappuccino since 2018. All this to show you’re worthy of paying double the house’s value over 25 years, as long as interest rates don’t decide to reenact the Battle of the Somme.

Meanwhile, the housing market is less a market and more a medieval bazaar run by gremlins on cocaine. One minute your dream home is “a steal at £300k,” the next it’s “a charming shoebox with murder potential” going for £475k thanks to the sudden discovery of an avocado shop nearby.

And don’t get me started on estate agents. Oh yes, the perennially cheerful snake oil salesmen of suburbia. “This charming studio flat is perfect for first-time buyers!” they chirp, failing to mention that the shower is in the kitchen, the wall are so thin that you’ll be able to distinctly hear the tinkle every time your neighbours will have a piss, and the only window overlooks a wall so close you can high-five the bricks.

But we do it, don’t we? We sign the death pledge. We commit. Because what choice do we have? Renting is like throwing your money into a fire while a landlord drinks your tears. So instead, we mortgage. We chain ourselves to a structure of bricks and very little insulation which needs “only a bit of work” and call it freedom.

So here’s to the humble mortgage: the modern rite of passage, the middle-class branding iron. It’s financial Stockholm Syndrome, but with more throw pillows.

Cheers.