Experts — such as Kate Barker, who wrote a report for the government arguing that the entire south of England should be covered in faux-wooden decking from B&Q, with maybe a pot plant here or there — keep telling us that house prices are inflated. I’m not so sure.

A week ago you could have bought my house for £300,000. Meanwhile, Alan Smith, the sulky blond-haired Leeds United striker, would cost you roughly 30 times that amount.

He’s a good player, Smith. But you could not spend your life in him. Where would you put the piano, for example? You will notice that I said “a week ago” you could buy my house. You can’t buy it now because (and I hope you are sitting down) . . . IT’S BEEN SOLD! I know, I know. It’s like hearing the news that the Berlin Wall has been dismantled. One of those brilliant, uplifting, glorious things which one never expects to witness in one’s own lifetime.

I don’t entirely believe it myself — but there’s a sign affixed to the front of the house saying: Sold. The locals think it’s a joke sign or maybe a piece of modern art offering an ironic commentary on something or other. But it’s not. It’s real. Who would have believed it? The people who are buying our house are called Seymour. Except that they didn’t need to, once they’d seen ours. Get it? Ha ha. Hold those ribs together.

It has been pointed out, a little unkindly I thought, that perhaps the reason Mr Seymour decided to buy the house was because at no time did he come into contact with me or any member of my family or the pets. In other words, he viewed the house without the distorting prism of what exactly it might do to you to live there. Mr Seymour’s wife, Mrs Seymour, did come into contact with both myself and my two adorable children. And she was reportedly rather less keen on moving in. QED.

It’s a cruel hypothesis, but I sort of understand it. You look around the house and quite like what you see but then, shockingly, you espy the current inhabitants and think to yourself: My God. Do we really want to end up like them? I suppose it has also helped that, having not met the man, I’ve been unable to write stuff about him in this column. I haven’t had a chance to laugh at his teeth or take the mickey out of his job or make lewd and potentially actionable suggestions to his teenage daughter, if he has one. Plus I was on my best behaviour when his wife came round. I swear to you I didn’t make a pass at her.

Plenty of things can still go wrong, of course. Nothing has been signed or exchanged. After all, we’ve been here once before.

The last time we accepted an offer the “purchaser” disappeared into the ether without a trace, like Lord Lucan. I expect his clothes will turn up on a beach very shortly. I sort of hope so.

Then there’s the surveyor to deal with. And, inevitably, bloody lawyers. And, of course, the question of where to move. The house I want — because it’s next door to the pub — is terribly expensive. I shall probably have to rent somewhere for a bit.

Or maybe ask the Seymours if I can hang around in the spare bedroom for a few months. I’m sure they won’t mind.

Right now, though, I’m on the island of Corsica trying to write a book. There’s an apartment going in the centre of Calvi, a beautiful old house with views down over the harbour. It’s on at £80,000. That would just about pay Alan Smith’s wages for two weeks. It’s a very tempting idea.

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