I’m not proud to admit that I love property as entertainment, especially smooth-brained “reality” shows in which peptide-plumped, pilates-honed NYC Amazons in towering Louboutins scrap over commission on Upper West Side condos. It’s a world where make-believe sums of money are bandied around, drama is manufactured, people say “I’m super excited” without any part of their preternaturally glossy faces moving and every surface is Carrara marble. I’m never more at peace than when I’m slumped under a crisp-strewn blanket, muttering “that’s hideous” at a $26m (£19m) penthouse.
Inevitably, social media cottoned on to my proclivities and now offers me endless real estate content. I appreciate the aspirational stuff: the Modern House (brutalism but make it chic), Inigo (for people with a cornicing kink), and Parisian internet “personality” @ZacharyMaille with his alarming blazers and Eiffel Tower views. And who doesn’t enjoy wondering why castles cost less than Sydenham semis (because they’re riddled with dry rot, haunted, and two hours from the nearest Spar, presumably)?
