The hot housing market has led to some curious social problems such as house abuse (cruising houses on the market with no intention of buying) and virtual-house-tour dependence (repeated virtual tours of new listings online). The virtual house tour is insidious. These property pin-ups, with their slow, teasing download, are like the door sliding down in one of those old-fashioned peep-show cubicles. And like a porn film, the virtual house tour is often light on plot and luridly lit.
Viewers have to endure long boring stretches — empty halls and cluttered laundry rooms — to get to the good bits (range-top Corian islands and wraparound screened verandas). And, as the following little melodrama shows, it can wreak havoc with marriages.
A couple, Richard and Cheryl, are getting ready for bed. The wife has a tall stack of glossy magazines by the bed. The husband plucks one of them — Country Bathrooms — out of her hands. She looks up, startled.
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“I was just getting to the wainscotting part . . .”
“Honey, we need to talk. What were you doing on the computer at 3am last night?”
“Nothing! Just . . . just weeding out my inbox.”
(Gently) “Were you taking virtual house tours again? You promised me all that was over now.”
(Furiously brushing her hair) “I was just looking at a few new listings. What’s wrong with looking?”
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“Aren’t you happy with what we have?”
“Of course I am. I love our house. But sometimes . . . looking at what other people do can give you good ideas. (She snuggles closer). You used to think a water feature on the terrace would be fun, remember?”
“That’s not all.” (Hoarsely) “Cheryl, I found some ads you ripped out of the paper. Ads for Out of Town properties.”
“Oh those! Ha ha — those properties meant nothing! I was just researching gazebos.”
(Almost shouting) “Those were £3 million properties, on private islands, in the Indian Ocean. I can’t commute from the Indian Ocean! What were you thinking?”
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“I’m sorry.” (She breaks down and weeps.) “I don’t know, something’s happening to me. I hate our rugs. I want brushed chrome taps. I want moulded maple bar stools.”
“Maybe you should see someone. Maybe you just have a touch of real estate poisoning.”
“Last week I caught myself doing virtual tours of farms — dairy farms! I wanted to tell you, but I was so ashamed.”
“We can renovate, sweetheart. Just tell me what you think we need. An edgeless pool? An atrium?”
“It’s hard to explain. I can’t help it. I just want to get online and see inside strange houses. I want to see inside their boot rooms and their walk-in airing cupboards. I was almost off it, I was down to one or two virtual tours a day. Then the market got hot again, and . . . I started to binge.”
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(Richard sits beside her and rubs her back.)
“OK, deep breath. You’re going to be all right. Have you told anyone else?”
“Just our agent. She says a lot of her clients are in property rehab. She thinks the hysterical housing market is a reaction to uncontrollable global events.”
“Home as the last safe place, kind of thing?”
“That’s right. The war on terror has no fixed address. The whole world is like a chilly room crying out for a fireplace and recycled oak floors. Pretty soon we’ll be shopping for fall-out shelters with plantation shutters.” (Cheryl blows her nose and sits up. She leans her head on her husband’s shoulder.)
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“But I feel better, now that you know.”
“Look, if it’ll help, show me what you like. We could try watching those decorator shows on television.”
“But I know how they disgust you.” (Brightly). “Even though some of them are really quite artistic!”
“Just don’t ask me to watch hard-core design.”
“We can start with The Painted House. It’s harmless.”
“I think I’ve seen that one. Debby Travis?”
(Playfully) “Oh I see — you’ve been watching on your own. You bad, bad boy.”
“Only when I can’t sleep. They run all night. I saw one where they used see-through shower curtains as a bed canopy. It kind of worked.”
“Would you be willing to try something like that? Not a canopy, but . . .”
“I wouldn’t say no to a canopy, in the right fabric.”
“I love it when you talk like that.”
They kiss, as copies of Interiors and Architectural Digest, along with six or seven tasselled raw-silk bolsters, slither to the floor.