It was always quite easy to steal cigarettes from the grown-ups, because they tended to leave them hanging around. Cash, on the other hand, they kept a closer hold on. During the long school holidays, my cousin and I used to roam each other’s houses on an eternal scavenge for neglected coins – which, on the blissful occasions when we found them, we spent immediately, recklessly, heedlessly, not to say recession-bustingly, on nothing except bubble gum.

Hard to put across just how wicked that was – much more than taking cigarettes, I’d say, because the gum-acquisition process involved breaking so many more rules. First, it required venturing out onto that strictly forbidden open territory between house and shop. Then there was the actual buying of sweets, which was forbidden in itself, and the buying of gum in particular – a double-bubble of sin. Finally, of course, there was the unforgivably evil process of chewing the stupid stuff. Just remembering it makes the old ticker tick a bit faster. We were very brave.

I can only imagine that our bubble-gum fixation ran its course at the height of the 1970s recession, when the top tax rate was up at more than 80% and the adults were embarrassingly poor, because, in all our searches, we never seemed to find enough money, in either house, to buy more than one piece of bubble gum at a time. They only cost a penny. And, as we had discovered that decent-sized bubbles could never properly be achieved with only half a piece, we agreed to take it in turns chewing on the whole thing. My cousin would be allowed 20 chews and two bubble-blowing attempts, then the gum would be passed over to me, then back to her and so on, until it became so tough that we started gagging. At which point terrible boredom would set in, and the search for a penny would be on once more.

There were violent fights, of course – for example, when either of us took 21 chews “by mistake” – but we got through all that. Actually, we got through whole days of it: fight, chew, bubble, pop, swap; fight, chew, bubble, pop, swap. Completely absorbed by it, we were. In fact, I do declare that those bubble-popping, saliva-swapping sessions are among the happiest of all my childhood memories. Or something equally disingenuous.

The point is, one way or another, all that illicit chewing meant the cousin and I developed what nursery teachers like to call “excellent sharing skills”.

Unfortunately, in adulthood, we fell out irrevocably (over alternative meanings of the word “lunchbox”, oddly enough. And, btw, I was right.) Nonetheless, thanks to our rigorous training, I am convinced that she and I would make unusually good neighbours if ever we found ourselves, for example, living in homes that shared a communal garden.

There’s an art to sharing – anything, but gardens especially, I suspect – an art that the English, with all their prissiness and disapproval (and their peculiar obsession with gardens), may not necessarily excel at. Imagine it. First, a beautiful lawn, many times larger than anything you could afford on your own, tended by a gardener only a fraction of whose salary you pay. But the lady at No 25 doesn’t always clear up after her doggie. Then there’s the elderly gentleman at 34, who wears a grubby anorak, so probably wants to be inappropriate with the kiddies on the communal seesaw; the little tart at 56, who insists on wearing next to nothing and splaying herself across that beautiful lawn the moment the sun comes out; the children at 31, who behave like wild animals . . . Then No 28 drops his butts and – oh, it’s a mine-field. A whole new circle of hell.

Which is why potential buyers of the stunning four-bedroom, £875,000 flat on the first floor of Northwick Park, a Grade I-listed stately home near Chipping Campden, in the Cotswolds, might do well to think carefully about their own sharing skills before proceeding.

Visitors to No 3 The Mansion enter through the communal front hall – staggeringly grand, if a little underheated – with marble floors and a wrought-iron spiral staircase that sweeps up three storeys towards a glass-domed ceiling. The flat, all 2,900 sq ft of it, is at the front and in immaculate condition. Its chief attraction is a 36ft drawing room, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the park, whose elegance it would be impossible to overstate.

Home for many years to the Spencer-Churchills, whose sharing skills were forced to come into play only in the mid1960s, Northwick Park was sold to a series of individuals, then bought by developers in the late 1980s. It was divided into six homes. At the same time, surrounding outhouses were converted and new houses were built from scratch, all in the same honey-coloured stone – and all, I might add, with impressive elegance and restraint.

The 70 properties nestle beautifully in 35 acres of communal parkland, with four tennis courts for the residents to learn not to squabble over, a croquet lawn for them to learn to share and a fine-looking outdoor heated swimming pool. For the girl at No 56. Sounds like heaven, doesn’t it?

Consider yourself warned.

The Mansion, Northwick, Glos, £875,000

What is it? A four-bedroom, three-reception first-floor flat

Where is it? In Northwick, 2½ miles from Chipping Campden

Who is selling it? Smiths Gore; 01451 832832, www.smithsgore.co.uk

Not tempted? Here’s what £875,000 buys elsewhere

Leicestershire

This six-bedroom, eight-bathroom house in Shawell, three miles from Rugby, is set in 11 acres. Its sculpted gardens have mature trees and a patio. Brown and Cockerill; 01788 551111, www.brownandcockerill.co.uk

Cornwall

This four-bedroom bungalow in Perranporth, six miles from Newquay, has two reception rooms and sits in 45 acres. Outbuildings include a two-bedroom annexe. Stags; 01872 264488, www.stags.co.uk

Warwickshire

Grade II-listed Hopkins House dates to the 14th century and is believed to be the oldest house in Long Marston. The five-bedroom property is four miles from Stratford. Knight Frank; 01789 297735, www.knightfrank.co.uk

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