Upon walking back from lunch the other day, I noticed that the building across the road from our office had a “For Sale” sign tacked out the front of it, and so taking heed of the only instinct I seem to have gained which indicates that I’m supposed to be getting more mature & responsible, I copied down the name of the real estate company and popped on to their website “just to have a look”. What manner of personal gain this information was supposed to give me, I’ve no idea – it’s not like I’m presently in the housing market, and if I was I can assure everyone that my target region isn’t anything you’d describe as “just over the back fence from Buckingham Palace” (in fact, I suspect my budget presently extends to property described as “4×6 foot patch of bitumen outside power station; shares shallow puddle with adjacent patch”).
ANYWAY, the “point” of all this was that it turns out the property is quite a handy sized building – 7 bedroom, 7 bathroom, 7 reception rooms, double garage and 2 self-contained basement flats!
I was just in the process of marking out on the floorplans with a hi-liter which of my mates would get which room, when I kinda stalled at the asking price. All this could be yours for a mere £9.85 million pounds.
I had a quick word with my mate Hannah (often the voice of reason around here), and after working out what our pooled resources came to we concluded that in order to pick up this bargain we’d still need to get hold of about £9,849,870.27 from somewhere. My immediate thought was that we could convince our fictional hedge fund benefactor who would be funding my Hollywood prop auction purchases to stump up the 9 million, however even were such a magnificent windfall to take place AND both of us added the takings from a good hard rummage in our respective sofas, the sad fact is that there’s no way anyone would lend Hannah & I the remaining pocket change to make up the difference.
I wonder if the bitumen patch comes with a sprinkling of gravel?