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It's only a year since I bought my first London property, so I didn't have serious plans to sell. But it seems I've been stuck in temporary accommodation mode. My whole generation is peripatetic: from jobs to relationships to the place we call home, nothing ever seems permanent. Moving on is our natural state.

At the weekend I noticed my next-door neighbours had re-whitewashed the front of their house. It suddenly struck me: that's what responsible home-owners do. I've just never stayed anywhere long enough to buy a can of paint. With a heady rush I realised I could even repaint the front door, currently an offensive shade of raspberry. And change the dated chrome knocker — so 1990s.
Since moving in, I've barely changed a thing about my house and I was happy that way. Just keeping the place sanitary seems achievement enough when you hold down a long-hours London job.

But then I went for drinks next door, to my neighbours' identical house. Except it isn't identical. Where I have a narrow, compact kitchen, they have a light and airy, high-ceilinged expanse, thanks to building into their side return. Ever since I've seen their culinary nirvana I've been eyeing the dank, redundant strip that borders my house with malicious intent. Its continued existence is depriving me of the kitchen of my dreams.

The garden is more shocking still. My own paved version has mature trees and bushes, and always seemed a lucky bonus in a city that's so stingy with outdoor space. But the velvet lawn that rolls out like an emerald carpet from my neighbours' beautiful kitchen has cast my concrete jungle in a whole new light. Even my cat arrived, on cue, to stretch out on their grass, making his preference clear.

I could so easily be consumed by next-door envy but instead I've made a list: paint door, lay lawn, build extension (maybe). It can't be a bad thing, this credit crunch, if it switches our focus to the home front.