The House-hunt: latest

Ventured out on a sweltering Saturday for a second viewing on a flat I'd seen in East Finchley with a magnificent lounge and a wonderful garden, but everything else about it was awful. Tiny, cramped kitchen, ensuite bathroom - the only bathroom. I took a good friend with an eye for the practical and even she admitted defeat. It would need an architect and lots of money, so that was out. Also, the owner was refusing to accept an offer of only 15k under the asking price.

Onward to a house on the borders of E. Finchley and Highgate. It had parking, it was an easy walk to the tube, it was well done up inside and had lots of storage. But it had two big minuses. One was a lousy garden overhung with mammoth Leylandii and a huge conifer. The garden sloped upwards and, like any ground beneath a conifer, showed not a living grassblade, just bare, parched earth. The even bigger minus was the fact that it was right on the A1 and although the double-glazing did a pretty good job, the view from the lounge window was of a constant stream of traffic on the dual carriageway. The red hot journey home, an hour and a half on stifling tubes, was dreadful. Despite water and one of those tiny battery-operated fans, I felt sick and swimmy-headed, sweaty and stinky and was never so glad to get home. Well, Mr Grumpy's home, not mine.

Three days ago I had noticed that a house I had seen last December was back on the market. It wasn't on the tube, but it was by a train station and bus routes and a good friend lives just round the corner. I hadn't gone for it six months ago because the price was too high but now it had dropped to £289k. I woke up this morning having made a decision. I would go for it. It was a perfectly nice little Victorian 2 up, 2 down with a south facing garden. Feeling happy now that I'd made a decision and didn't have to stagger about on red hot days any more, I clicked once more onto the agent's website to have a look at my soon-to-be home. But guess what? It had a red Under Offer sign across the photograph. I could't believe it. I felt breathless and cheated and very depressed.

What now? If I don't move soon, I'll be stuck for another unspeakably awful winter in Hillingdon, with my hands blue with cold once again, trying to type with a duvet wraped round me. No, no, NO!!!