One day Mr Gill, my last landlord, who had a truly poetic way with words, turned up unannounced. “You have four weeks to leave,” he declared, explaining that property prices locally had spiked since the Olympics, and now “even this shithole’s worth half a mill”. It seemed a lot for a humble four-bed, shared between six, that shook when you slammed the front door.
“But I’ve only just settled in,” I protested. Mr Gill was the kind of landlord you could depend on for two things: never to respond to your calls and to be inappropriately smug whenever possible. “You’re too young to be settling. You should be discovering new neighbourhoods, like I did with this place. It’ll pay off eventually. Just pack light. You can’t take it with you, after all.”
Unless, of course, you can – not to the great freehold in the sky, but to a new location: a travelling home. Which is why, this week, I’m dreaming of a luxury yacht whose plush interior hides its capacity for speed, presumably earning it its name: Misunderstood Mangusta. Misunderstood can jet from Miami to the Bahamas in two hours, a feat that would make going home for lunch a global affair. Imagine cruising the canals of Birmingham or the litter-strewn Hackney riviera: flapping linen sleeves, deck shoes without socks (even in winter) and, the pièce de résistance, a pool on the roof.
All I want is to live in a place long enough to register with a dentist; but if I have to travel, a touch of the Duran Duran lifestyle wouldn’t go amiss.
