Property talk is the new dirty talk. Everyone's at it, shamelessly turned on by the increased value of their homes. A few weeks ago, I bumped into an old friend, a very hard-working and successful lawyer, who had just had her house valued. The estate agent had been around to check out her dimensions and had got her all excited with his sexed-up digits.
"He told me it has doubled:' she said, licking her lips, "and that my rear access is my most attractive feature;' "I could have told you that:' I replied. "I know. But he measured the back passage and said that I could greatly increase my interior space with a very large erection."
I reminded her that size isn't everything, it's what you do with it that counts, but she wasn't really listening. She just jumped into her car and drove off, dreaming of power tools and builder's cleavage.
But my libidinous curiosity had been awakened and I decided to give her estate agent a call. He answered quickly, his voice over the phone strangely hypnotic, like one of those expensive sex lines you call in the middle of the night when you can't sleep. He sprinkled his saucy spiel with words like "dual aspect" (nice), "room to extend" (now you're talking) and "tongue and groove" (the cheeky little minx) and, although the line was bad, at one point I am sure he asked me if my erogenous zone was well served by public transport. By the time I'd hung up, I couldn't help noticing I had a semi, and I don't mean the three-bedroom type in Lucan.
Two days later, he arrived with a camera, a measuring tape and some brochures of other properties in the area. "This one is nice:' he said, turning to page 17 of Pimp My Penthouse. "And it's a first viewing:' he added. "I'll show it to you tomorrow at lunchtime, if you like."
I checked out the photos and wondered what it would feel like to be the first to enter that gorgeous white virginal apartment with glamorous water views and all that closet space (but who needs a closet these days? Not I). It was all such an unbelievable turn-on - especially if I sold my place for the obscene amount the estate agent had just mentioned – that Imade an offer on the spot.
Within no time, my apartment was on the market and I was spending hours every day cleaning every orifice so that my estate-agent pimp could show it off like a high-class hooker looking for the best price. People came round while I was out and fingered the appliances and checked out the vital statistics.
Sometimes, when I got home, I noticed that the beds were all messed up, which led me to believe my estate agent might be renting the place by the hour. But otherwise everything seemed to be going very well and the price continued to rise, until, just as it looked like we were nearing a climax ... the phone rang. (Isn't it always the way?)
"I have some bad news for you," said the estate agent, in his most seductive voice. "The developers have sold the waterfront apartment for a higher price. They couldn't wait for you any longer and they got another 25 grand. I'm afraid it's no longer yours.“
I was devastated that my sexy dream home had been cruelly taken from me before we even had a chance to consummate the relationship. I was so depressed that I wandered through the streets of Dublin looking at estate agents' windows advertising gorgeous but unattainable properties with "Sale Agreed" stuck over the asking price. Briefly, in a dingy internet cafe, I was lured into the sleazy world of online property porn, lusting after stunningly built homes with big curvaceous driveways but so ludicrously priced that they were clearly out of my league.
I was emotionally exhausted when I got back to my apartment, but when I got inside, it feIt familiar and homely. What on earth had come over me? I realised I had been perfectly happy with my comfortable city-centre pad before that pimping, dirty-talking estate agent had entered my life, tempting me with all his hot properties. Perhaps it was not as sultry and seductive as that waterfronted tart around the corner, and, yes, I did have the occasional pang of balcony envy when I looked at my neighbour's large, protruding appendage but, for all its faults, at least it was mine.
I deleted the estate agent's number from my phone and threw out all his magazines. The next time I need to hear some dirty talk, I will call Camilla Parker Bowles.