It was hot. We stood a few metres from the auctioneer. I launched bidding early, held my nerve until our limit. It kept going, 30 thousand more and it eventually sold.
I'm glad in some respects it went for that much; for a few moments there it looked like the bid after my last, a mere 5 grand higher, would be the winner, which for whatever irrational reason would be hard to swallow.
But given that the place was not outstanding to begin with, the market might be sending us a message.
Preston and Coburg suddenly look attractive.
Damn it was hot, still is. A day to blast any last drops of optimism out of our withered husks and force us to pick up our tents and head north, towards the distant pools of mud, hoping they don't turn out to be a mirage.
Sorry bub, daddy didn't get you somewhere to live today, I'll keep trying.
Who needs Simon Schama? - Let's face it, there's nothing the BBC likes better than to send bespectacled history boffins out into the fields to stomp around in the mud, to frown port...
5 hours ago