By the time I visited the third redbrick, I realised the reality - the soaring prices of second-hand houses has tapered-off. The salesman was on his own.
For the past few years, on a Saturday trawl of properties, one bumped into queues of thirtysomethings on the stairway. One squeezed past urgent family conferences and whispered opinions. One listened to potential buyers, humming and "haw-ing". One saw the hopefuls go out into the garden and heard the drone of mobile phone conversations with advisors, parents and lenders.
Many did quick figure calculations and climbed into the 4x4 to inspect a few more substantial properties by lunchtime. No doubt some were trading-up - such was the rising tide - or were in receipt of premature inheritance from parents, forced to by their adult offspring.
The lucky ones who could afford these city gems, fantasy of magazine readers, did so because they had landed a work bonus, or parental gift, or sold a business. Or won the Lotto. Other couples scrambled, saved, agonised to get their hands on a "charming, old-world redbrick terraced house exuding character, near to schools and city amenities".
They wanted it so much, they lost sleep over it and daytime dreams became the stuff of nightmares, with bailiffs at the door. Such was the price of the boom.
The boom also meant double-jobbing or both partners working, or exorbitant costs of childcare. It meant rising early and coming home late, to amass the dosh that such properties demanded - and were getting - from the market mania. Such mass energy produced a new work ethic in the Republic, swelling the PAYE- take for the Government. Inflated taxes on property sales in Vat and stamp duties boosted State coffers by billions. (Okay, Josh, spare me the Economics.)
Miles away from the city redbricks, it was the same desperation. Getting on to that fabled property ladder (must be some weight by now) consigned millions to morning gridlock, producing serious wear-and-tear on personal relationships and patience. "What kind of day did I have, darling? Don't talk to me till I have a drink!"
Last Saturday, I saw the glimmer of light on the horizon, a possible "correction" to the market. The salesman inside the door had an armful of unwanted colour brochures. He was like a tic-tac man on a racecourse, marking my card.
"Ah, good day, sir, nice to see you, can I help? I'm below here while you look around, just call if you have any queries."
Any queries? A few years ago, all he did was give out the brochures and the telephone numbers, which were the sale prices. Now, this Saturday, he awaits my reaction: he must have been lonely, on his own all morning
"Any queries?" he asks. "I have seen the light," I say. "Ah, yes, sir, very light-filled this house, indeed flooded with light, you might say. Ha, ha!"
Actually, no, what I meant was the light on the horizon of market change. But I had not the heart to tell him. I'm a coward that way, or as the poet said: "That is not what I meant, that is not what I meant at all".
