There’s a lot of discussion around social housing at the moment. Basically, there isn’t enough of it. We were lucky. We were offered a two bedroom first storey flat nestled deep in the Hampshire countryside, back in 2000. New century, new home. It would serve us nicely for two or three years, while I completed my postgraduate studies and inched my way up the greasy pole. Ha! The best laid plans, eh?
In fact, we’re still here, now both retired and considering ourselves damned lucky to have a home, let alone a cosy little number that shares a postcode with millionaire neighbours. They have alpacas as pets, don’t y’ know?
Anyway, when our grandchildren trooped in en route to school this morning, No.2 twin handed me an invitation. It had been left on our doormat by a local estate agent, and it was exclusive. Whoopee!
Apparently a development company is asking us to attend a viewing of “5 attractive homes, which have been thoughtfully positioned.” They are Edwardian style villas, no less. Each has four bedrooms, and range from 1700 – 2100 sqft. Open plan, blah, blah, blah. South facing gardens, blah, blah, blah.
But why on earth would they include us among their potential buyers? Even if we had the sort of silly money they’re asking, we would most definitely not be investing it in their bricks and mortar. We’re quite happy as we are, thanks. Although, maybe would could use a back porch and a few chicken scratching about in the dirt.