Six months into marketing my flat, I can no longer bear to read the feedback from viewings. This is because I have had a long stream of unpleasable young idealists poking around, being snooty about absolutely everything.
It’s a lovely apartment, and I’m gutted to have to leave it to be nearer the horses. But a move to Surrey is unavoidable, and so the agents bring sulky-looking first-time buyers around one after the po-faced other. And each viewing prompts the same ludicrously picky feedback, always featuring the infuriating complaint that the garden is “not south-facing”.
