Unhinged

Having decided to invest your hard earned into some French bricks and mortar, you spend many a happy hour scrolling through a thousand property websites. Stumbling upon the odd chateau, you linger lovingly over the photos and ignore the muffled squeals coming from your wallet. You can already picture the crunchy gravel, the peacocks strutting across the manicured lawns and the oohs and ahhs of your family and friends as they arrive. And whilst all of this is harmless (and free) fun, it’s time for a quick reality check.

First – all those lovely crinkly parapets, towers and mullioned windows are deeply expensive to restore and then maintain. As are the electrics, plumbing, outbuildings, cottages (there’s bound to be one or two), stone terraces and drive. And assuming you can’t afford an équipe to do all the chunky bits and decide to take on the work yourself, you’ll likely end up marooned in a half finished folly, knackered and about 107. Second – even if you get to the finishing line with your sanity and bank account intact, you now have a bloody big house. Which needs furnishing and cleaning. So unless a maiden aunt has bequeathed you huge amounts of antique furniture, you’re going to have to shell out for some - lots, in fact.  And an industrial sized Dyson, for which you’ll have to find a suitably mobile lady what does, as the occasional whip round with a duster and Mr Sheen is unlikely to suffice. But given the whole exercise has probably put an intolerable strain on your marriage, the cavernous space will at least allow each of you repair to some far flung wing and communicate by email.

And finally, visitors. Having put your heart and soul into your dream home, you’d like some time to enjoy it. It’s early May, birds sing outside the lovingly restored sash windows, fresh with their final coat of paint. Deer tread lightly through the Oaks beyond your newly fenced paddocks and finally, after months of toil, you dig out a deck chair, get a drink with a brolly in it and ease your tired back into the wicker’s comfortable embrace. Then a horn toots as the first batch of freeloaders blast up the carefully raked drive, ready to empty both your larder and well stocked wine cellar.

Happily, the one thing you haven’t fixed is the guest wing plumbing, and once night falls your unwanted interlopers will discover the delights of medieval ablutions. If all goes according to plan, this should prompt a blessedly swift farewell the following morning and, once home, hopefully they’ll spread the word. But just to be sure (and before the next batch arrive), fix one of those entrance intercom thingys at the end of the drive. And turn it off.