My loyal reader knows full well that I escape to southern seas for the winter months, and all winters are mere memories. Having experienced earthquakes, cyclones, fires and shootings across the waters, I am now ‘locked up’ in my home county, embarrassed that Kent has earned notoriety as the name-bearer of a rampant virus variant while China, birthplace of the original virus, seems to have escaped any such fate.

As part of the struggle for entertainment, I spent four months buying a property on the South Coast. A modest two-bed with sea views: a bolt hole for the healthy sea air and an indulgent haven for happier times. I bought a two-bed residence in Christchurch, New Zealand, a while back – one signed fax paper sealed the deal. What a palaver to buy over here.

Foolishly, I agreed to allow a solicitor, coupled with the estate agent under the same parent company, to handle the purchase. The seller also fell for this same system and we both realised that these multipurpose, all-enveloping businesses are not good news. Why didn’t I use my sensible, local lawyer who has dealt with previous purchases? Why did I get sucked into a London firm that seemed on another planet?