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Buying property

At that point, purchasing property was too simple: houses cost nothing so everybody would go out on a Saturday morning and get maybe a couple before lunch. Indeed, even us children would pop down to the milkbar with our pocket cash and return home with a couple musk sticks, twelve pineapple bumps, a Cola Glug, and a three-room block Californian Bungalow. In any case, now, houses are insane costly, nobody can manage the cost of them: you have to get monstrous measures of cash from an exceptional cash loaning organization called “Your Parents”, which resemble a bank aside from the lines are shorter and you need to ensure you wipe your feet before you come in.

Then, land specialists were shonky little characters: extreme pushy blokes in modest suits, just a few scores above steed dashing bookies or Squizzy Taylor. They were all pumped on caffeine and Winnie Reds, yabbering in your face like Scorsese in a DVD sound editorial. In any case, now, land operators are all Zen and affable, male and female, enchanting and all around designated, gloating a north-bound outside, interesting period detail, and a brilliantly kept up mix of formal and causal living where “life meets style”.

Then, searching for property was dead exhausting: you scoured through pages and pages of classifieds, all content just postings, no house-photographs unless it was a renown property like Kirribilli House or Great Keppel Island. In any case, now, searching for property is a visual pleasure: you go on the web and take a 3D Virtual-Reality Walk-Through Movie-Tour, coordinated by an Oscar-selected cinematographer, with crane-shots and steadicam-footage and automaton cameras flying through upstairs windows, paying aware tribute to Orson Welles’ notable through-the-sky facing window grouping in Citizen Kane.

Then, open-for-inspections were kind of creepy: you walked into a dirty old house furnished with milkcrate-furniture and carpets made of housemate pube-trimmings. And sometimes the occupants were still in the house so you had to tiptoe through a bedroom with a pair of feet poking out the bottom of the bed, another pair of feet lying on top.  But now open-for-inspections are glamorous red-carpet events: the houses have been completely re-furnished by Philippe Starck and the exhibition-design-team from MONA.  The air is scented with freshly-baked cookies, vanilla pods, and concentrated extract of newborn baby-head.  And you’re allowed to wander around on your own, do what you like: take a nap in a bedroom, have a shower in the bathroom, scroll through your Instas on the computer.  The real estate agent won’t mind, as long as you keep your clothes on and don’t mess with the wi-fi settings.

Then, everyone just wanted a house with the basics: kitchen, bedrooms, a door to get in and out –  but if a door’s not possible, you’re happy to just crawl in and out through the bathroom window, if there’s a bathroom.  But now, people want so much more:  they want media rooms, home offices, butler’s pantries, artist studios, and a torture dungeon/basement with abattoir hooks and a strap-down dentist chair.  Nothing fancy, just a small one, like the neighbour’s have got.