‘Tell us about the one luxury item you wish you could afford, in as much detail as you can. Paint a picture for us.’
So. Given that this is my first proper post of 2016, and taking into account the agony of being in property buy/sell chain HELL right now, this is my little luxury item:
A house. On an island. On a beach.
I did think about waxing lyrical about that much desired Kitchenaid Artisan Mixer that I have lusted after for eons but have never treated myself to, but bollocks to that.
No one said it had to be a little thing, it’s a one shot deal and I ain’t messing around here. And the fact that it has already been sold isn’t putting me off none. This house is mine.
It was most recently owned by a Lord and Lady Long who were getting on in years, and the steps either side of that swaying 100ft Edwardian bridge were becoming a bit much for them, plus I believe they had problems with some of the more lively locals coming down to the beach after the pubs closed to party, make noise and even aim missiles at their beloved domicile. Excuse me?!
Which is why I’d need to also acquire a goodly stretch of that beach, and hire a couple of gnarly, sociopathic, ex SAS security men to keep the riff raff at bay.
Like I say; this ain’t a game to me. I have had enough of the worst of humanity and those local wankers will do well to keep out of my way. Plus I would have no neighbours whatsoever, so no need to keep up with anyone. Jones who?
I’ve always fantasised about living in a lighthouse, and essentially you get the same kind of views with this place, plus that aforementioned private bridge, so it will be a bit easier than having to board a dingy when you have to nip to the local Tesco for a pint of milk and some cat food.
Prior to the Longs, my house used to be a holiday let and here for your delectation is some of the Conde Nast marketing preamble regarding it’s many charms:
“Overhauling the place was an eight-month job. It has been transformed, decorated in all shades of seagull, white and greys; and has the feel of an airy beach house with natural wood and white-painted floorboards and four-poster beds swathed in muslin. Furniture is coastal-contemporary: egg chairs, ticking-stripes upholstery, molded dining chairs that emulate the outlines of driftwood. There’s also a bar room with a bar and a billiards table in it.
Apart from the words ‘exchanged’ and ‘completed’ I think not. Because buying and selling simultaneously in the UK (except for Scotland) is one of the most financially risky, precarious, nerve wracking things you will ever have to do. And if you have an anxiety issues like I do, it’s essentially the like cyanide icing on the strychnine cake that you never ordered in the first place.
Do I strike you as being a mite anti social right now?
Damn fucking right.
So no one can come in unless you specifically allow them access. Plus in the event of the zombie apocalypse, I would retract my bridge and those suckers can growl and snarl and hurl themselves against the rocks and pound themselves to hamburger, whilst I take pot shots at them with an air rifle and binge watch DVD’s, sipping wine from my cellar and slurping oysters from the shell as I watch the sun go down over the sea and wait for the military to arrive. Sigh.
Back in the real world I’ll be lucky if I don’t have my flat repossessed and end up in my mate’s wonky old caravan with two wailing cats and a pile of possessions that I can’t afford to store.
So, given that beggars can’t be choosers, and if this is a little too big an ask, I’d be more than happy with the mixer.