If it takes any longer to find a buyer for my London flat I am going to start coming to the conclusion that it is perfect for me in my old age. Forget moving to a cottage with a vertiginous staircase in the inhospitable countryside, this two-bedroom apartment minutes from the hustle and bustle is just the thing for an aging couple like the builder boyfriend and me.
‘Think about it,’ said the BB the other evening, as we sat in my cosy living room, he nursing the usual aches and pains he brings home after a hard day on a roof. ‘This is just what we need. It’s handy for shops and services and it’s all on one level so I can limp around as my dodgy hip gives out.’
He’s right. If we didn’t own a flat in London at this point in our middle age we really ought to be buying one for convenience sake. Certainly, I can’t be bothered selling one for much longer, given the sort of shenanigans that are going on in this weird climate.
The agent, panic-stricken since I smelt a rat with the last buyer they persuaded me to entertain for three months, is putting all manner of insane propositions to me and claiming they are ‘offers’.
‘Good news!’ they emailed a few days ago. Someone wanted to buy my flat, but on the condition that they will be able to extend over the side return into my small back garden.
I pointed out that this was not, in my humble opinion, the dictionary definition of good news. The flat is leasehold and in a conservation area. Extending it would ruin life for three sets of neighbours, obscuring their light and peace. It would concrete over a little oasis of green space, setting a precedent for more gardens in the area to be built on.