We were going to start our ‘real life’ search for a new home in North London by going to an open house viewing of a flat nearby. But when we are about to leave we realise there’s no house number on the ad. Husband phones the estate agent. Our first mistake: the guy at the other end is so obnoxious that Husband ends the conversation well before it even begins. ‘Don’t bother,’ he says. (He doesn’t suffer fools gladly.)
We decide to wander off towards the area where we might want to live instead, only to be distracted by the unmistakeable smell of a BBQ coming from a nice-looking pub. After a delicious lunch with a glass of wine we’re more willing to see a few spotty estate agents.
Surprise, surprise: What we are looking for is exactly what everyone else wants too. It seems demand in our corner of the market far outstrips supply.
And I naively thought the housing market was in a recession.
‘Not in this part of London,’ says a person in a pinstripe suit. (Dark suit in this heat?)
‘Right.’ I try to avoid looking at Husband. We decide to leave the hunt for a home for another week.
Where are Kirstie and Phil when you need them?