I have been forced by new-found wealth to change my approach to money, the universe and everything. This sudden change of heart is entirely due to my having sold a tiny property in a desirable area. The greed came upon me when I suddenly smelled an effort-free pay day, and it must explain why I turned down the chance of a (mere) 30-grand profit on the sale of my flat last week.
The conversation with my local estate agent went something like this: “Lauren, we’ve got the asking price.” To which I replied smoothly: “So has another agency. By the way, they’ve also offered to drop their commission to 1.5; if you do the same, we may still have a deal.”
People climbing the property ladder have a lot in common with career politicians. One lot cling to a chain; the other lot scramble up a greasy pole. And both drop the morals they started out with in order to allow them to achieve the position or location of their dreams.
The location of my dreams is and always will be the old radical’s favourite, Hampstead in north London. So, judging by my recent behaviour on the property market, I may as well start a group called Fox Hunters Against the Handicapped now and have done with moral obligations altogether.
Late one night, browsing through the Guardian‘s internet archive, I came across one of many upmarket articles raining praise on Canary Wharf and echoing my suspicions about what happens to us when we homebuyers view the world from our own cosy perspective.
Under a section headed, caringly, “Social Change”, John Cunningham insisted that the Wharf is no longer just an “icon of Thatcher’s creed”. No, no, said John; indeed, the area surrounding the glistening tower contains an ideal, sanitised world: a materialist’s utopia, where “you don’t see beggars, buskers or dropped litter” and where “no evidence of failure or mistakes . . . can be discerned”.
Why not be honest and say that old bubble- gum, ketchup-encrusted McDonald’s boxes and homeless alcoholics merely exist to threaten the value of expensive properties. Not in my backyard, mate.
To see how home ownership and/or politics can change your life, just look at Stephen Byers and Alan Milburn. Both were good old Labour lads, once upon a time. Byers was a noisy councillor with militant tendencies, while Milburn worked in a leftie bookshop called Days of Hope (ruefully known as the Haze of Dope).
My guess is that their blinding conversions to the Third Way, and the shunning of their militant and hippy pasts, coincided directly with their first visit to a garden centre or Homebase.
Is it gilding the lily to mention that the most famous new Labour householder of them all had a youthful dalliance with communism before he fell in love with Notting Hill? I think not.
My own flat is not quite in the Mandelson mould, but it is overpriced – despite being situated next door to a residential home for the mentally handicapped. Melrose is a happy little road, with trees, a vast park and an exclusive Brent-style mix of creeds and cultures to recommend it. And, several times a day, Monica and Mandy sneak out in their slippers for a fag. They promenade up and down, waving at the neighbours and merrily making a fuss of my dog. We all get on well; but, in property- selling circles, they are called “liabilities”. Yet the friendly nature of the home and its inhabitants is among the best things about this location.
My partner and I treasure, in particular, the dawn- and-dusk chorus that is distinctive to our street. This melody combines the cooing of wood pigeons, the twittering of swallows and, from the home next door, Henry’s monotone serenade. It wasn’t until I first showed Little Miss Marketing around my flat that I realised that Henry’s nightly whoops and wails would prove to be a problem. You should have seen her face when he let loose a vast moan at his usual time of 7.30pm.
“What’s that?” she asked, shocked to the tips of her Prada shoes. At this point, I realised that, for some months, my boyfriend and I have taken to answering these whoops with our own personal yells – but hey, at least we’ve felt like part of the local community.
Needless to say, we didn’t sell to her or any of the other buyers who visited at 7.30pm.
For a time, middle-class guilt threatened (but without success) to take the shine off my new-found wealth. After all, when the freelancers and freeloaders moved to Hoxton and Stoke Newington, the candle shops quickly followed, and the locals were promptly encouraged to “move along”.
My next investment is going to be a property in either Stratford or Forest Gate, east London areas that the local MP, Tony Banks, recommends as both “pleasant” (in patches) and “affordable”.
But as with other up-and-coming areas, how long can it be before a Sushi bar replaces the local fish stall, and a Starbucks forces Joe’s cafe to close down?
On this matter, an East End pal is very reassuring. While popular opinion would have it that the arrival of media and arty types en masse has brutally forced out the working-class residents, John has a different angle altogether. He says that the working-class families have the last laugh.
“Your lot moved in and my family made tidy profits on the little houses they didn’t want any more. Who wants to be in the city centre? We don’t want gleaming escalators, and we definitely don’t want to live next door to scented candles.”
Content from our partners
Related
