It was cheering to read that William and Kate’s new lease for Forest Lodge in Windsor stipulates that they must keep the grounds “clean and tidy” and “free from weeds”. Solidarity, comrades! How relatable. For I too am a renter, and know how it feels to live under the landlord’s cosh. My own tenancy agreement says something similar.

Not that the landlords have ever enforced it. They take what I might euphemistically call a “hands-off” approach, which I acknowledge is preferable to the alternative. I was outside weeding this very afternoon, not because I’m legally obliged to but because I have decided, after four years of letting it slide, to enjoy my garden again.

I say “my” garden, but it is of course a rented garden. When you’re renting, there is always a dilemma as to how much time and money to invest in your surroundings, what with the constant awareness that they could be snatched away from under you at any moment. Or at least, that used to be the case. We got a letter from Clarion Housing yesterday and my heart started beating like a snare drum, a trauma response acquired from lengthy experience. But instead of yet another rent increase, it was informing us of our new legal rights as tenants (thanks, Labour!). Not only can we now only be evicted for a very good reason, ditto the cat.

In fairness to Clarion, it does seem to recognise more than most private landlords that a rented home is still a home: the decorating, including the colour of the walls, falls to us. Unlike several of my friends, we never bothered to hide the cat when there was a fire inspection. Mackerel is an indoor cat and if anyone wanted to evict her, well, I say good luck to them and their still-intact eyeballs.

So there I was this afternoon, feeling more upbeat about being a tenant than usual, weeding and swishing my hair like a princess (it is Kate who does the bulk of the gardening in the royal household which is, again, relatable), reflecting on my time renting this property, which now amounts to, God, 15 years. On the one hand, I feel very fortunate to have had such security of tenancy. On the other, there’s all that money “thrown away” on rent. If your ability to make rent every month were sufficient proof of being able to afford a mortgage, I’d have owned a place years ago. Sadly, the requirement for a pesky lump sum of tens of thousands of pounds has been a barrier.

Every time I write about renting, I get well-meaning emails from readers linking to houses in places such as Swansea, suggesting I buy a house there. To try to stave those off, let me just say that I have strong reasons for needing to be in London, and were you to sit opposite me at a pub table I would probably tell you them, and I think that most of you, being lovely Guardian readers, would probably find those persuasive. No one has a right, per se, to live in north London – and indeed the way things are going the only people who will soon live here will be millionaires, so I might as well enjoy it while I can. That enjoyment is already limited by the sounds of the aforementioned millionaires all digging out their cellars.

Anyway, I’m weeding, regally. And I’m admiring the roses: roses that I planted 10 years ago as bare root cuttings from Poundland shoved straight in the ground, because I didn’t know what I was doing. They are now 8ft high. This year, the small magnolia tree finally flowered. It only took a decade. I never thought I’d see that happen.

I could find the fact we’re still here depressing. The obsession with property ownership in this country does make it feel shameful and embarrassing, sometimes, to still be a tenant. I’ll admit that I have some quite extreme opinions about landlords: I think it should be socially unacceptable to be one, and that they should be booed in the streets. There are people who I know and quite like who are landlords, so this is tricky. But anyone who is a landlord has, in my opinion, a hoarding problem.

So does the royal family. Despite their tenancy agreement, the prince and princess will never face the true reality of renting. They haven’t had to sit on hold for hours listening to Mr Bojangles on a loop while trying to get hold of their landlord or letting agent (there but for the grace of God go I etc). They haven’t worried about the effects of mould on their premature baby’s lungs, or looked at him in an oxygen mask and worried it might be because of his bedroom. And they haven’t wondered how they will afford yet another increase.

Yet despite all this, this place is my home. It’s the only one I have, and I’m going to use it and enjoy it, just as all my neighbours do, many of whom are renters but long ago decided to stop waiting and start living. They’ve planted fruit trees, bought patio furniture. For my part, I’ve accepted that we are still here. I have put a swing in for my son, and this weekend he will play on it while I sit under a parasol and look at the roses I have planted. They are beautiful and blooming and, despite everything, mine.

• Rhiannon Lucy Cosslett is a Guardian columnist