There is a yellowing piece of paper stuck to my parents' fridge that looks like a soggy, tea-stained, homemade A-Z. On it is a litany of London postcodes I have rented rooms in since 2007. NW11 to W4, SE8 to E17, SW6, SW2, and then, finally and apologetically, scribbled in the margin, where the paper starts to curl, SE10. Like all of the places I have ever rented, written down it looks terribly temporary. But I hope that it is my final resting place.

The tiny two-roomed box does not belong to me, but it feels more like home than anywhere else I have ever lived. When my boyfriend and I Chuckle-Brothered a heavy dresser over the threshold just under a year ago, I was filled with a sense of hope. Perhaps I would never have to move again, and not just because my elbows would probably shatter first.

At the moment, trying to buy a home in or around London feels like trying to buy a sandwich during the last days of the Weimar Republic. "It's a million pounds today, but it will be two million tomorrow! We need to do it now," friends breathlessly exclaim, alternating tearful telephone calls with the bank and the estate agent. Parents are, predictably, worse. Grandparents are more understanding. "Our first house cost £1,100," mused my granny thoughtfully, while I reflected that if we lived in the 1940s we could buy a house a month and have enough left over for council tax.

The thing is, I love renting our little flat. I'd be happy to live there until I inevitably choked on an olive pit, or passed on peacefully into my hummus, my stiff body having to be lowered out of the window while the paramedics tried to wrench the TV remote from my stiffening fist. Realistically, I don't know if I'll ever be in a position to buy, and I'm not prepared to press pause on the present while I wait for a future I'm not sure I want. I could live in a 16-person houseshare in order to scrape together a deposit for a shed in Enfield, but I suspect that by the time I had enough money, the market would have become so out of control that it would be no longer possible to buy property on land, and I'd be better off attaching a houseboat to a haunted island off the coast of Venice.

Kind, well-meaning pals look at our sitting room, marvel at the proximity to the river Thames, the downstairs shop that sells lobster-flavoured Kettle Chips, and then tilt their heads and say gently, "Of course, this is only temporary, yeah? Obviously you're not going to be here for ever."

We may not be. Our landlord could double the rent tomorrow, one of us could be summoned to work in Stockholm or Scotland or Stockport, or we might find ourselves in financial penury. But buying does not protect you from any of that, unless the house is made of bolted steel and you purchase the property in its entirety with giant suitcases of money.

When it comes to where we live, fretting about the future has brought out the worst in all of us, and ruined things for future generations. It's not just about giving them a chance to buy, but ensuring they have the opportunity to rent a safe property for a fair price. Renting is seen as the worst case scenario because our aggressive desperation to buy has made it so. And once you've bought, you're not allowed to exhale with relief as you christen the hatstand and pour your inaugural brandy. You're merely on the ladder, and you're supposed to spend the rest of your working life flipping over slightly bigger, more expensive places, your mortgage disappearing into the horizon like a carrier bag caught in a vertical draft.

This is not a future that takes my fancy, so I choose to rent. I get to live in a flat I like with the man I love, in a community I adore. I know renting can be grim, but it really doesn't have to be. Perhaps if there were a little more respect for renters, and the realisation that renting should be about living happily, not waiting and making do, we'd have a stronger appreciation for renters' rights and more would get the accommodation they're entitled to.

• This article was originally published on rentalraters.com