If tax doesn't kill the market, red tape will.

As the rather derisory offer for our house stutters somewhat lifelessly towards a still very unpredictable conclusion, it's no longer Osborne's rip-off tax-take that's likely to kill it. It's the unbelievable volume of red tape.

Like most things, property has become mired in a bog of meaningless paperwork designed, apparently, to protect a feckless population from its own common sense.

Obtaining a mortgage is now a Kafkaesque farce (or should that be nightmare). Even successful city types with bonus-pots to die for face a wall of inane enquiries utterly irrelevant to their ability to maintain the monthly repayments. These are people who on a daily basis probably invest multiple millions, but are not trusted to know their own position well enough to borrow even a relatively small percentage of a property's value.

Things may have been in need of a slight tightening after the 'crash', but this is murderous strangulation.

When it comes to the property itself, the level of paperwork sought by ever more zealous lawyers is bordering on the insane.

I would not be in the least surprised to be asked to guarantee my buyer's happiness in the house.

Asked for a warranty on the whole heating system (bear in mind that this is a small, two bed house) I simply replied - yes, I guarantee that it has one.

I've heard of insulating a property, but now it seems the buyer must be insulated too - from every known risk, every known potential problem, every known unknowable.

We have supplied planning permissions, building regs certification, electrical safety certification, gas safety certification....and still the requirements keep coming in.

"Did you have Conservation Area permission to replace the roof?". Well, you pointless box-ticking robot, I've given you a 10 year roof guarantee and, if we hadn't replaced it, the thing would probably have collapsed on your buyer's head. So, what would you prefer? I bit of A4 paper, or a rather beautiful new roof?

In truth, our transaction is not remotely complex or fraught with too many problems. There is absolutely nothing that a conversation face-to-face between myself and the buyer could not iron out.

But no, that's simply not the 'done thing'. So we'll keep bouncing bits of digital paperwork around the global servers of Google until some sort of conclusion is finally reached.

What that will be I have absolutely no idea. And it certainly doesn't come with a guarantee.

Here's one I made earlier......

Complete with the same furnishings and decor as we sold with it, our first Doer Upper comes back to market as a resale and the UK's most expensive studio flat. (According to The Daily Telegraph.)

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The UK's most expensive studio flat could be yours... for £1.175m

The apartment in London's Knightsbridge comes complete with a loft bed and is smaller than a Tube carriage

The petite apartment in London's Knightsbridge costs £2,300 per square foot, and at 510 square feet is smaller than a Tube carriage.

And with nearly £2,000 of service charges and ground rent to pay per year, those precious square feet do not come cheap.

Described by estate agents as being "an ideal pied-a-terre in one of London's finest addresses", the bedsit has access to the neighbouring communal gardens. The lease has just 85 years remaining.

When ready for bed, go upstairs to the bedroom - which is actually a loft bed on a mezzanine above the kitchen.

The ground floor flat has an open plan kitchen and living room, with a shower room nearby.

The exterior of the studio flat in Egerton Gardens  Photo: JLL

Simon Godson, director at W.A.Ellis, part of the JLL Group, said: "The position of a property can really add to its value.

"The position of this Egerton Gardens property, south facing over the stunning crescent, really adds to its appeal and there are people who would rather be in a grand studio than a one-bed flat that doesn't have such an exceptional outlook."

All I want for Christmas is....

Dear Santa,

I like to think that I am one of your most undemanding customers. Not only have I been reasonably good all year (considering the turmoil in the property market), but I really don't ask for much at Christmas.

You can re-allocate the cashmere V-necks, the Aqua di Parma smellies and even the swanky new MacBook Air that I covet. I'd forgo almost anything if you could deliver on just one or two of the following:

1: A Sense of Humour.  My family would probably tell you that I've never had one. But in the current property market I feel it's now an essential. I'm not sure that anything can help me see the funny side of a Conservative Chancellor's tax raids on property that have so far cost me at least £250k. But with your help, Santa, I can try.

2: A Time Machine.  I just need one little journey back to Summer 2013 when an agent promised he'd get me over £2m for our then unmodernised little terraced house...and greed got the better of me. I wasted months on offers via this agent that never went anywhere, and that's why I'm now stuck with a modernised house that won't sell for much more! I promise, Mr Claus, not to make the same mistake again, if you just let me go back in time and change things.

3: A Crystal Ball. I don't know about you Santa, but I don't rate the highly paid teams of analysts and forecasters that work for the top estate agents. Their crystal balls seem just that - balls. So could I have a proper, real, working crystal ball so that I can find out whether or not to take the offer that's currently on the table for our house. Knowing my luck, without your crystal ball, I'll sell at a low price just before the market turns upwards.

4: A Few Quid. I am feeling poorer than at any time since I was in my 20s. So a modest lottery win wouldn't go amiss - anything with seven or, preferably, eight figures in it will do. This sudden wealth would not, I promise, ruin my life. Far from it.

It's a short list, Santa. And although perhaps not entirely typical of the requests you receive, I think it's all well within your gift. I certainly hope so. Especially since I'm having the fireplace reinstated just so you can drop in.

Happy Christmas.
The Doer-Upper

My latest visit to a parallel universe: The free property magazine.

A hefty thud on the doormat signalled the arrival of yet another glossy, free property mag.

This one was the 'original' London Magazine. But it could have been The Resident (countless area versions) or Absolutely Kensington (also available in endless slightly different versions).

Flicking through the December issue is the usual bizarre experience. Like entering a parallel universe where everyone's a Euromillions rollover winner.

The first property advertised is in Highgate and £14m. There's something hideous south of the river for north of £8m. And then Phillimore Gardens (£17m), Chelsea Square (£18.995m), a W14 flat (£13.5m), Lyall Street (£15.95m).

By now I'm only halfway through the magazine.

I've skipped over the 'low-end' £5m houses, and some pretty boring looking £7-8m ones. Hardly worth the bother when just over the page there's a £16m mansion in W11. Or a £12m house virtually next door to the office where I had my own ad agency in Weymouth St, W1.

After a while, I can take no more of this extreme property porn and flick back to the editorial for a break.

Interior designers you've never heard of show us their homes, the super-rich show us their wine cellars, there are children's toys for Christmas priced at up to £20,000, and a guide to dumping your bonus in St James's....you get the picture.

As the person once responsible for re-launching Harvey Nichols, I am not averse to luxury goods and spending money.

But this world of ultra-excess is just unreal.  Who are all these people that can afford £10m or more on a house? OK, I've met a few people who've made serious amounts of money. Some could certainly afford something like this. Not many, however.

Yet London is awash with homes at these astronomical prices.

Even more ridiculous is the idea that someone is sitting around somewhere searching through magazines for a £17m house.

Anyone with that kind of money is far too busy to waste time studying The London Magazine, or indeed waste time looking for a house themselves. They'd have people looking for them.

Just like they have people walking their dog, picking up their kids from school, reserving a table at Sexy Fish or keeping the Range Rover ticking over outside.

So why are all these agents wasting their money on glossy ads in these waste-bin mags?

They'll tell you that it's really about marketing themselves to potential sellers. You or I see they have homes like ours to sell...so we think they'd be right for us.

Well, maybe. But it still seems a pretty roundabout and expensive way to go about it.

Especially when they're also wasting their money by putting properties on OTM (onthemarket.com) where virtually nobody will see them.

Hey, ho. What do I know? It's all a parallel universe to me.


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nb: I've just been reminded that in fact The London Magazine is owned by a group of agents who are therefore contracted to advertise in it. Agents also, of course, own OnTheMarket. Perhaps they should stick to what they're good at - being agents.

The Private Member's Club Effect. A bit like the Waitrose effect....only cooler.

As 150,000 well-heeled festival-goers descended on Worthy Farm earlier this year, a few miles down the road a far smaller group of even better-heeled punters were turning into the long drive up to Babington House.

This luxurious Somerset outpost of the Soho House Group is a rather quieter but no less vital contributor to life in this corner of the county.

Indeed, this private members club, hotel and spa has arguably done much more for the local economy than the Glastonbury Festival.

When the first media-types made the long hike from Notting Hill to the newly opened Babington a decade or two ago, the surrounding area was still 'undiscovered' by weekenders and, in property terms, an under-valued gem.

Small villages such as Mells, Batcombe, Pitcombe, Witham Friary and Brewham, as well as towns like Bruton and Frome, were in decline. Agricultural jobs were disappearing. Local industries such as printing were closing. Even the many Mendip quarries weren't exactly booming. And the once bustling industrial hub of Shepton Mallett was turning into a ghost town.

Soon, however, a steady stream of Babington converts wearing brand new Hunter wellies were knocking on the doors of local estate agents. All of them looking to buy something 'authentic'. Something to do up, somewhere to splash the Farrow & Ball (as well as the cash).

Even now, years later, estate agent details for a certain type of property will include not just the distances to a local pub, station, village store and school...but how many miles it is to Babington!

And no, they never tell you how far the house is from Mr Eavis's farm.

Ironically perhaps, some of these incomers haven't even kept up their Babington membership since buying a weekend place or moving here full time.

They no longer need its protective, familiar, metropolitan environment. They've created their own. And it's centred on Bruton. A small town previously best known for its boarding schools and an Elizabethan auditor called Sexey (!), but now lauded by the likes of Vogue magazine as the place to be.

The most recent addition to Bruton's growing fashion credentials is the Hauser & Wirth gallery - created by the couple recently voted the most powerful people in the art world! It's a sort of mini Saatchi Gallery based in a lovingly converted old farm, with a garden designed by the creator of New York's High-Line.

On any Friday or Saturday night you'll find the gallery's Roth Bar six deep with youthful 4x4 driving weekenders. Look more closely and their number will include a smattering of minor celebrities, fashion designers, architects, impresarios, actors, film & TV directors and the occasional school parent slumming it before picking up little Toby from school.

It's quite unlike any other 'scene' you're likely to come across this deep into rural England. In the courtyard a seriously good DJ operates from a converted horsebox. There's an outdoor mojito bar that looks like a village fete stall. And the diners packing out the restaurant wouldn't look out of place at Club 55 in St Tropez (although their wardrobe might look a little different on the beach).

In reverse, it would be as if a bunch of young farmers, all with broad Somerset accents, had taken over the Electric on Portobello Road. Permanently.

Glasto has almost certainly had some long term impact on the local economy. In the town of Glastonbury itself you can get kitted out like an old hippie, learn how to get in touch with your spiritual side or buy a whole library of books on ley lines. But it's only since the arrival of the Soho House outpost that the area really took off.

House prices have risen steeply. Brilliant little hotel/restaurants like The Talbot Inn in Mells have opened up. Frome has created one of the most innovative independent retailer streets and monthly markets in Britain. The building trades have never been so busy. Online businesses are popping up everywhere. And there's a real sense of creative reinvention across this whole part of north east Somerset.

An expensive private members club can't, of course, take the credit for all of this. But it can maybe take more than Mr Eavis's rather middle-aged mega-rave down the road.

Indeed, perhaps the opening of a place like Babington is now as clear a sign of rural revival as the opening of a Waitrose is of urban gentrification.

I wish I'd snapped up an old photography studio.

This week the property that once housed the studio of photographer Terence Donovan went on sale for an eye-watering £18m.

It's had a bit of a makeover, of course, and been much expanded. More than a bit if I'm honest, as it was 'done' by the never knowingly restrained Candy & Candy.

In fact, it's hard to believe it's the same place I spent several days in while making a commercial with the celebrated snapper.

His studio, which is round the back of Claridges, was just one of the many wonderful spaces I was lucky enough to visit while working with some of London's top photographers back in the 90s.

There was Lichfield over in Notting Hill, Snowden in Kensington, Bailey up in Primrose Hill and others only slightly less famous with amazing spaces in Chelsea, Belgravia, Soho, Holborn and Battersea. I particularly remember the purpose built artist's studio of Tessa Traeger on Flood Street in Chelsea.

Today, the combined value of these studios, tarted up, must run to well over £100m.

Although I understand why Donovan's old studio has been given an "007" makeover, I can't help feeling nostalgic for the original look.

These wonderful light filled double height spaces were just begging to be turned into spacious, minimalist New York style lofts. White walls, bare bricks, stripped wood floors, simple kitchens, old French dining tables, huge and slightly distressed big comfy sofas, vast modern canvases to occasionally break up the white....that's all they needed to make them into 'creative' homes rather than creative workplaces.

Sadly, for me at least, the market doesn't seem to agree.

So there are acres of Carrara marble, lavish underground pools that will hardly ever be used, vast wine showcases, pile upon pile of shiny bed cushions, etc etc.

I'm sure it's beautiful in its way. And certainly of very, very high quality.

But even if I had £18m to spare (plus The Osbourne Tax), I wouldn't be rushing to put in an offer.

I'd be focussing on finding an original, and snapping that up.

(OK, that's enough of the rubbish puns.)

Neighbours? What neighbours?

In the past I might have been apt to dispute the idea that neighbourliness in London was a thing of the past, but the stark reality of our capital's unfriendliness has been brought home to me by our experience in the country.

A year ago we bought a weekend cottage in a Somerset hamlet. It's on a very narrow lane some way off the village main street. It's detached. There are neighbours. But they aren't exactly next door, if you know what I mean.

Yet since arriving we have been greeted with such hospitality, such friendliness, such a good-hearted welcome that it feels as if one has travelled back in time rather than just a couple of hours out of London.

By contrast, our little four house terrace in Kensington feels glacial in its indifference.

One resident can be excused. She and we tried at first to connect. But when this still stoic elderly lady forgot our names 5 times as we helped her back the 10 yards to her front door, we realised that it was going to be tricky.

The next house along is owned by perhaps the least friendly.  They are very English, they are not much older than us, they are clearly middle-class, and if they lived on our lane in Somerset I'm pretty sure we would at least have had a neighbourly conversation with them.

In London, however, they have never really had a civil word to say to us since our arrival.

I can remember only two occasions when they have spoken to me. And one of those was only because they were forced to.

Most recently, we had accepted (in a neighbourly way) a parcel that someone was trying unsuccessfully to deliver to them. When they popped round to collect it that evening, I sort of expected a smile, a gracious thank you and perhaps even a few words of conversation.

But no. Even the thank you was rather grudging. How weird.

Perhaps they're just shy. Or think we look like the kind of people they don't like.

Personally, I think they are just bloody rude. Or unwell.

The last house is occupied by a slightly younger couple. But we both have dogs so you'd have thought that would provide enough common ground. But no, the nearest they've come to friendliness is when they stopped to rather gleefully inform me that another house on the terrace was going on the market and would compete with my own.

That was it. Well, thanks a bunch.

Not without some cause, my wife often says that I'm an unfriendly old git. So perhaps I come across as badly as our neighbours.

Maybe there's just something about cities that changes our characters, makes us more insular, more self-contained.

Whatever the reason, it's rather sad.