A guide to house-buying, by Anne Robinson – and Mrs Thatcher
Not long before her departure from the political scene, I was invited to a Christmas lunch at Lord McAlpine’s country house, where Mrs Thatcher and Denis were the main guests.
We were 12 in all: an odd mix, including Terence Donovan, Mrs T’s favourite photographer, Olga Polizzi and her husband, William Shawcross, and Henry and Tessa Keswick.
In the slightly awkward pre-lunch drinks, I was standing with two other guests and Mrs Thatcher when, out of nowhere, she announced (and this is best done in a slow, deliberate voice after a couple of gins):
‘I always say to young people, “Buy a big house when you first get married and then you don’t have to move.”’
‘Yes, Prime Minister,’ chorused the other two.
I couldn’t help myself: ‘But, of course, Prime Minister,’ I responded haltingly, ‘not everyone can afford a big house when they first get married.’
She turned to face me full on.
‘I bet,’ she said, ‘you’ve made some money out of houses while I’ve been in office.’
By golly, I had. In the eighties, flipping West London properties paid far better than journalism or being a quiz-show host. As a result, I was known to every silk-socked, tassel-shoed estate agent in Kensington. John D Wood, who inexplicably favoured hiring young officers from the Blues and Royals, invited me one year to their office Christmas party.
And when they sent a new girl to take me to a viewing, I automatically asked what regiment she’d served in.
Alas the last two decades have produced a harsher world. Those posh boys from the big firms are now charged with making thirty calls a day, and from 15 viewings they need to achieve one offer – or they’re out.
That means the single operators – often called finders – are thriving. They have good contacts, people skills and importantly the time to play nanny, shrink, best friend and even ‘close companion’ until the magical words ‘We’ve exchanged’ are uttered.
Cannily one of this tribe wrote an anonymous – he goes by the nom de plume Max – account of a year in his life selling super-prime homes in London. If you are as devoted to Location, Location and Kirsty and Phil as I am, you’ll be gripped.
There’s the Oscar-winning actress who always arrives five minutes early. The billionaire so rude and foul he makes Kanye West seem like Mother Teresa. The sad, deserted wife, the American influencer who may or may not have the price of a Tube ride and the National Treasure in the Cotswolds with an ugly, almost unsaleable 1910 pile.
Best of all is ‘Uncle Fortescue’, who belongs to Natasha, the aristocratic assistant in Max’s office. Uncle Fortescue lives in Victoria Road, W8. It doesn’t come more desirable in Kensington, except that the inside of Uncle Fortescue’s home is a filthy slum for which Uncle Fortescue wants an unrealistic ten million.
Plus he only wishes to sell to an Englishman. Not any sort of Englishman. Because when a wealthy trader from Yorkshire shows an interest, Uncle Fortescue instantly objects because he’s common.
The author also describes showing me a house and ‘twittered on about the joys of an ensuite bathroom’ when I cut him short with, ‘You’ve got a non-speaking role.’ Quite right. These days, I don’t wait that long. As we enter a property, I tell Rupert, Giles or Tarquin to imagine my mobile is a remote control pressed to mute him. And unless I hold it up to his face, I wish to hear nothing. Especially not the blindingly obvious.
I don’t recall the encounter with Max, but he comes across as an absolute sweetie. For months, he patiently wraps a protective arm round Zara when her horrible husband goes off with the Pilates teacher and she and her children must find a new home for half the price of a Notting Hill mansion.
The answer is Queen’s Park, where a four million price tag is not unusual and there are now apparently more Filipinos emptying dishwashers than there are in Belgravia.
Maxisgayandinabitofamuddle about his life. Meanwhile, his small team variously fall in and out of love with each other, their clients and, worse, their clients’ unreasonable, spoilt, horrible children.
In a struggle to discover a more meaningful direction, the author even records regular visits to his shrink, Quentin. I like the sound of Quentin, who is no slouch.
For one appointment, he announces they are going on a field trip. Specifically, to visit a sex shop, the Clonezone.
The quest is for Max’s sexual liberation. Once he’s there, in a spirit of helpfulness the salesman in leather chaps explains of an item on display, ‘This can bring you to orgasm without a physical touch to the actual phallus.’
If that moves you more than the property dramas, the address is 266 Old Brompton Road, London SW5 9HR.
Highly Desirable – Tales of London’s Super-Prime Property from The Secret Agent by Anonymous (Headline, £22) is out now
