I bought a poky wee apartment yesterday, redeemed on all counts by its proximity to one of Melbourne's finest mid-century subterranean public toilets, its pink bathtub, and the fact that it is (in auctioneer's parlance) "literally a stone's throw from the 86 tram". If I were the government, I'd be cracking down on the realty-vending sector for its constant encitement to dangerous stone-throwing in areas of high public utility. Anyway, you'd want to have a pretty big catapult.
I'm trying not to let the sheer exhilaration of contracting a six-figure debt go to my head, so will do my best not to go on too much about my ascension into the ranks of the landed gentry (technically not so much the landed gentry, as the block-of-aired gentry, since I bought on the second storey). But if I can't help myself, please be patient. It'll pass in time, along with my obsessive search for the perfect wallpaper and an uncracked pink toilet bowl.
Meanwhile, what about those auctioneers, eh? They're like 1920s quack doctoring entrepreneurs as envisaged through the eyes of Hollywood. Amazing creatures. Their hair unguents alone could lubricate an entire naval flotilla.