My mother grew up in a house of spectacular grandeur. So grand, in fact, that it now belongs to the National Trust and can be visited by people in search of tasteful tea towels and nice soaps, most days of the week. Its Palladian white-marble hall, 40ft high, with a world-renowned Artari and Bagutti ceiling, is said to be one of the finest of its kind in Europe.

Anyway, there was a brief period when my mother used to travel from the aforementioned fancy household to attend an ordinary local day school, and from time to time she would swallow her self-consciousness and invite one of her less privileged schoolfriends home for tea. Which was fine, until my grandmother, who was quite a scary bird, noticed the “common” way the mothers insisted on looking at the ceiling when they arrived to pick up their daughters. Shortly afterwards, my mother was sent to boarding school. Where she met lots of people with spectacular ceilings who’d all been properly drilled, according to their tribal mores, only ever to look at their ceilings in private. And preferably not to look at all.

My scary grandmother has long since joined the other angels in the most spectacular ceiling of all, but it occurs to me that her hardline approach may have left behind some awkward residue. Or maybe she can’t really be blamed. Anyway, there is definitely something slightly uncomfortable, I find, about fetching the kids from play dates – I mean (oops-a-daisy, pardon me, Nan) fetching the children from their social engagements – at houses more magnificent than one’s own.

And oh, how the mighty have fallen! It doesn’t take a world-renowned Palladian ceiling to get me goggling commonly, just a nice, open-plan London sitting room, with space to swing a kitten, and perhaps a pair of double doors at the end that look onto a garden.

Trouble is, of course, until recently, that sort of setup was a pipe dream to everyone but the bankers – who between them priced all the other “hard-working families” (or dispossessed toffs: take your pick) right out of the market. I must not gloat. I am not gloating. I will not gloat. But, er, prices are tumbling, in case you hadn’t noticed. Suddenly, there’s a glimmer of hope. Window-shopping for family houses is almost enjoyable again.

In fact, there I was, surfing property websites the other day, noting carefully which houses had been lingering on the market for how long, which ones had come on with new agents and which ones had recently dropped their asking price (ha!), when what should I stumble on but a house that looked immaculate, enviable – and ever so familiar.

One of my son’s best friends lives there. He is a lovely seven-year-old: funny,brave and good at football. I have lost count of the times I have stood at his threshold, waiting for my son to find his shoes. For two years, on and off, I have stood there patiently on that immaculate limestone floor, with my grandmother’s voice echoing in my ears and my eyes not sliding to left or to right, for fear that the merest glimpse of the house beyond would transform me into a jealous heap of shuddering, tearful commonness.

Number 11 Glebe Road is a stunning five-bedroom, three-bathroom, two-reception semidetached house with a large garden in the leafy London suburb of Barnes. It was bought, partially derelict, four years ago and transformed into what is – at least in my opinion – a perfect family house. It has been interior-designed throughout: every room on each of the three floors has an intangible cloud of pastel-coloured luxury hanging over it. There is a small and elegant sitting room at the front, from which, if the house were mine, I would ban all persons under the age of 20; and an open-plan 32ft by 22ft kitchen/diner at the back, with a whole wall of glass doors opening out onto the garden.

The family have another house they want to move into (tough old life), so it’s partly for that reason – and partly to fall in line with price reductions all around the eternally fragrant bankers’ belt of Barnes – that the price has just been reduced by £500,000 to £1.975m. I still can’t afford it myself, but somebody should grab it fast.

My son will be sorry when it goes. He never wants to leave. Partly because of the large garden, of course. Partly because of the secret room on the top floor (not so secret any more), with a door so tiny, only children can fit through it. Partly because there’s enough room to swing about 60 cats in the open-plan kitchen/diner.

“Why,” asks my charming son, each time we drive away from there, “have we got such a dud house and such a dud garden?”

Well. I could tell him all about the Sudanese refugee camps, I suppose. But it seems a negative way to go.

“Give it time,” I say instead. “This particular house may still be beyond us, but think of the Great Depression. There may be another crash to come, and next time, baby, when the world is ruined and everyone’s in tears, there’llbe another house, with another secret cupboard – and we’ll be there with our tuppence ha’penny, ready to swoop.”

Then I cackle like a witch and we all live happily ever after. In our dreams.

11 Glebe Road, London SW13, £1.975m

What is it?A five-bedroom semi near the river, with three bathrooms and two reception rooms

Where is it?Barnes, in southwest London

Who is selling it?Savills; 020 8939 6900, www.savills.co.uk

Not tempted? Here’s what £1.975m buys elsewhere

Devon

Once home to Rudyard Kipling, this five-bedroom, three-bathroom Grade II-listed house stands on a clifftop in Torquay. The price has been cut by £2.5m since last year. Knight Frank; 01392 848825, www.knightfrank.co.uk

Cheshire

Located on the edge of Chester, this six-bedroom house has four reception rooms, a cinema room, a covered swimming pool, and a separate coach house with a gym. Jackson Stops & Staff; 01244 328361, www.jackson-stops.co.uk

Kent

Orchard Court is a five-bedroom house on the 1.3acre Wildernesse estate, two miles from the centre of Sevenoaks. It has three reception rooms and three bathrooms. Savills; 01732 789700, www.savills.co.uk

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