Shhh, don’t tell Curly. I am looking in the estate agent’s window. I am not supposed to do this. Just as other people are addicted to class-A substances, to porn, or to internet gambling, I am addicted to gazing through the windows of estate agents.
This is my first relapse for a while; it’s probably been, ooh, two weeks since the last time I looked. The nice terrace off the high street has been snapped up, for the extortionate sum of £325,000. No surprise there. More worryingly, the flat on our road has been reduced, but then, it has swirly wallpaper and no central heating and was originally on the market for £200,000. Perhaps there is some sanity in the world, after all.
My eye wanders longingly across the card advertising a large terraced house by the park. It’s the Platonic ideal of a middle-class family home: sturdy, red-brick, period features; a sitting room with a fireplace, and a garden. It wins a Brucey bonus for having a wisteria, my favourite creeper (yes, I have a favourite creeper) growing over the door.
I won’t look at the price just yet. The bustle of the high street recedes and I slip off into my favourite fantasy: summer evenings in the garden, dinners al fresco; cosy winter afternoons eating scones before the open fire; raucous Sunday lunch parties with a full-sized table to sit around; somewhere to put the Lego; a room for each child – no more moving cots around and unfolding furniture in the dead of night; a book-lined study in which I could pursue my Improving Activities, or slip off to for a quiet doze.
Enough! Time to face reality: £650,000. Ouch, it’s even worse than I thought. Prices are going up again – how can it be possible when nobody around here has any money? I spend a few enjoyable moments directing hate vibes at all the trendies rolling in from Hackney with their ironic T-shirts and their huge deposits, taking our houses… Admittedly, Curly and I moved to the area three years ago from Hackney, but that was different. The new wave of squeezed-middle settlers is better dressed, richer, and more annoying. There’s really no comparison.
Wait a moment – what is this? Right in the corner of the display, almost hidden from view, is a dog-eared card I have never noticed before. It’s a little 1930s two-up-two-down just around the corner from our slightly-too-small flat, on a pleasant, leafy road a little further from the station. “Property needs some modernisation,” reads the blurb, but it doesn’t look too bad. Unbelievably, it’s on for £240,000, which in all my years of estate-agent-lurking I have rarely seen before. If we sell everything we own and lie through our teeth to the mortgage company, there is a small chance we could afford it.
Before I know what I am doing, I have opened the door and marched inside. A very shiny man is sitting at the front desk, and he looks up to greet me with a narrow cunning smile. “Good morning, madam. How can I help you today?”