We’re at the end of a row of classic Fulham terraced houses painted in delicate pastel shades of periwinkle and lemon and mint green, which means we only have neighbours on one side of us, so more light, less noise. You can get into the garden directly from the side street rather than having to go through the house, a boon when you have to deal with pushchairs and bicycles and all the rest of the paraphernalia that comes with children.

We had to renovate from top to bottom when we moved in eight years ago: we were among the last in our street to dig out the basement, but doing so increased our square footage – and property value – by thirty percent overnight. I had a floor-to-ceiling glass light well put in where the side return used to be, extending down into the basement and up through each of the three main floors of the house: the architect was sceptical, but it was more than worth the cost.

Smoked oak flooring. A Chesney fireplace, bespoke kitchen cabinets, Miele appliances and Carrara marble, a walkout rooftop terrace. Our asking price is simultaneously audacious and reasonable.

We’re going to need every penny to buy the Glass House.

To be honest, I’m surprised a couple in their late twenties with two young children can afford a house anywhere near our price point, but apparently they’re successful lifestyle vloggers with their own Instagram and YouTube channel, KyperLife, an irritating portmanteau of their names. The woman’s been videoing herself as they’ve viewed the house, despite me asking her not to – I don’t want our kids’ bedrooms all over the internet.

They’re holding hands now as they gaze at the house from the garden. It’s clear they love it. They’re already feeling a stirring of possessiveness as they imagine where they’ll put their furniture.

When they come back inside, he’s the one who reaches me first, squaring over-muscled shoulders and extending his hand with a simulacrum of spousal authority, but she’s the one in charge. It’s always the woman who picks the house.

‘Kyle Conway,’ he says. ‘This is my wife, Harper.’

‘Pleased to meet you,’ she says.

He gestures around the sitting room. ‘Julia says you renovated the whole house, top to bottom,’ he says. ‘You’ve done an amazing job.’

‘The previous owner hadn’t touched it in forty years,’ I say. ‘Some of the rooms didn’t even have light fittings. It was easier to rip everything down to the studs and start again than try to fix it.’

I try not to wince as Harper scratches hot pink acrylic nails across the textured sisal wallpaper, a hungry look in her eyes. ‘It must be hard to sell after all the work you’ve put in,’ she says.