Charles Darwin would be fascinated. It appears a new race of human beings have evolved who are incapable of walking up a few little steps for a wazz.

I’ve only made this amazing anthropological discovery because I’m selling a house; and, nowadays, it’s apparent you’re nobody without a downstairs loo. This obsession with ground-floor-urination is turning out to be unfortunate for me, because I live in a tiny nineteenth-century stable conversion, and I Don’t Have One. The closest comparable closet I can offer is a washing-up bowl in the cupboard under the stairs.

In truth, I’d forgotten what an annoying and intrusive experience house-selling is, with strangers trooping through your personal space turning up their noses at its implied deficiencies; correspondingly, if unintentionally, passing tacit judgement upon your very way of living too. It’s a recipe for simmering indignation. How dare they judge my lifestyle, when every human who shuffles across the threshold is, frankly, as downright odd as the last. I’ve had tired-looking middle-aged women who want to put their mothers-in-law in the garage, a chap with a grand piano (when my house would barely accommodate a mouth-organ), and people with more kids than I’ve got bedrooms - who, despite being furnished with a dimension-strewn floor plan by the world-weary agent, express genuine surprise when their metaphorical Shirehorse won’t wedge in the stable built for a Shetland Pony.

The most soul-destroying aspect of the whole sorry show is the depressing realisation that most of you clearly want to live in a house exactly the same as everyone else’s. Why? What happened to the once-lauded trait of individuality? When did you all become bland little clones of one another?

Although my obviously downstairs-defecation-deficient dwelling is evidently not for the unimaginative masses, I’m nevertheless pleased that - still unsold - it’s at least got a soul. It’s endearingly old-fashioned, wacky, wonky, and creaky…much like its owner - who may be getting on a bit but, crucially, can still make it upstairs for a p*ss.