And my HIPs don't lie

I arrived home on Thursday to find a brightly-coloured "For Sale" sign emblazoning my house. It wasn't entirely a surprise, I'd been told that the "sign man" would be coming some time soon, and would either put the sign prominently above the arch that goes under my house, or tucked in next to my front door within the arch itself "depending on whether he's got his ladder with him or not."

He obviously didn't have his ladder because it's tucked in next to the front door, within an archway which serves a small shared parking area. So until my house starts turning up in the usual publications, the current advertising is highly targeted at market demographic consisting of me and my four neighbours.

I bought my house brand new, from the builders, which means this is my first experience of the much-maligned British Estate Agent. Twice over in fact, because we're selling Jane's house at the same time. Two Estate Agents, two solicitors, and two HIPs.

If you're of foreign persuasion and not aware of HIPs, no they're not the scrupulously honest bony projection of the femur so beloved of Shakira, they're a special document that every house in England has to have before you're allowed to flog it. A "Home Information Pack" tells the prospective buyer how energy efficient it is, how likely it is to collapse, that kind of thing. Ignore the fact that no-one really cares whether the Tudor mansion they've set their heart on has cavity wall insulation, the government has decided HIPs are A Good Thing. Which probably means that someone who put a lot of money in their coffers told them HIPs are A Good Thing, and are now making a lot of money in return for little more than sending around a little man to look at your loft insulation. But hey, I don't do politics.