Not a Conspiracy
There’s got to be a whole psychology of real estate, right? I mean, there’s something about that whole domain that seems to send perfectly sensible people into a tailspin. Whether it’s a would-be buyer with an offer on the table, tearing out their hair every time their phone rings, or a seller obsessing over whether live orchids or native bouquets are the more ‘homely’ choice, something’s up. I want to know what it is.
I’m thinking of entering the fray, you see, and I want to know what I’m in for. Is it that, from the minute you put in your first offer, you can never again walk past a nice driveway without remarking on it, permanently disfiguring your conversational repertoire? Or is it a much darker secret… like, our minds can be controlled by layered lighting and magnolia-scented candles, enabling the powers that be to have us do their bidding?
In any case, I should probably consult with a property advocacy service. Melbourne is going through yet another weird turn in the market, and it can’t be doing much good for people’s sanity. A seasoned pro could, at least, explain what’s happening, and maybe provide some insider tips for not losing my marbles in a sea of vendor statements and stamp duty exemptions.
Then again, what if they use their insider knowledge to induct me into a growing army of real estate laypeople? You know – hoards of souls just like me, who unwittingly fell prey to the lure of throw rugs, imported soap dishes and earthy floral room sprays to become walking, talking pawns of the property market.
I’m getting carried away, I think. There’s probably no such army. What would be the point? To keep people going round and round in a spiral of ever-increasing housing prices, never achieving the state of ultimate bliss to which all professionally styled home interiors allude? No, that couldn’t be it.