According to Alexa, the leading analytics employer, the maximum visited websites last year were the ones you’d expect: Google, YouTube, Facebook, and Amazon. (Alexa is owned via Amazon, using the way which makes sense: Amazon owns the entirety). But I understand I am a part of a committed group of folks that spend an enormous amount of time on the net, not looking at the back-of-the-scenes clips of Broad City – although there is that – but surfing websites. This isn’t because I am an investor (cue hysterical laughter) or buy a house. This is true escapism.
Sites including Rightmove, Zoopla, and Purple Bricks are my weakness; I’m afraid I have a passionate dislike of property agents – because fool me as soon as, disgrace you, deceive me 90 times, and I will despise you for lifestyles – and a key bonus of escapist surfing does not have to address them. I am looking at £2m townhouses in London, huge open-plan warehouses in Glasgow, or charming bungalows in Pembrokeshire. I can also skip hours on The Modern House and WowHaus, which both market their locations to live. I have recently branched into stalking lofts in New York and Berlin, stroll-united states, on Google Street View.
My obsession predates the internet. Whenever I changed into a medical doctor’s ready room, I might dive into the dog-eared copies of Country Life, and although I turned 16 with less than £a hundred in an ISA, I could take in the Knight Frank manor houses for sale ( tennis courts, stables, a lake). Despite realizing that marketers are awful, I desired to be one as a kid. I even made promotional brochures for my nonexistent organization using a superficial Microsoft software program. I played The Sims existence-simulation online game to construct the houses. I worked out a way to recreate it so that I ought to upload basements and double-top ceilings.
I have written earlier than in this column about my ardor for tiles, and these are a considerable issue regarding the houses that make me swoon. But so are chunky beams and stained-glass home windows in church conversions. I refuse to be shamed for spotting online that one of the pastel-colored houses on my dream street has come onto the market and then altering my direction to paintings to stroll by it like a pining lover.
I lustily have a pipe dream after design works as a pressure launch, a plaster of aesthetics on the wound of information. I suppose one could argue that downloading PDFs of the houses – as though I were going to install a suggestion on Toddington Manor before Damien Hirst offered it (shut up) – might be taking it to some distance. But you should excuse me: I have a video excursion of a Barbican penthouse to revel in.