What is it? A bungalow, like your nan got after your granddad floated to the top of that pool in Marbella, ruby red and brown bread;

Where is it? Forest Hill, home to the Wetherspoons that has, for my money, pound-for-pound the most sinister vibe in London;

What is there to do locally? The Forest Hill-East Dulwich-Honor Oak Park trifecta is mainly yung mums in yellow rain macs furiously pushing buggies while yung dads with £3,000 road bikes sit outside cafés in full lycra loudly drinking a takeaway espresso, but then dotted here and there are some real shit-hole pubs that puncture the street-food-and-£6-pint vibes with a very legitimate "pool cue up your arse if you wash your hands after you piss again, mate" feeling, so overall I would say Forest Hill is a melting pot. I mean, there’s a nice cemetery there, I guess;

Alright, how much are they asking? One actual million of your actual British pounds.

Let's play some fun imagination games. Just some absurd set-ups for you to imagine in your mind, because they will never happen for real, in the world.

Scenario #1: You, of all the people on Earth, have been chosen for the first mission to Mars, which you undertake solo. Your chrome-gleaming spaceship lands softly on the red, red dirt. You take one step onto Mars. You look around. How alien, this place. What an overwhelming, juddering feeling: that you, you, are the first human being to ever see this place up close, to ever feel it for yourself. Take the helmet off. Take one big breath of the air. It’s breathable. You live here, now. In 20 years they will build statues in your name.

Scenario #2: You’re at a celebrity or otherwise showbiz party, and Rihanna walks past you. Rihanna! But Rihanna doesn’t walk past you: she stops, she turns your way. Rihanna recognises something deep within you that is unique and precious and gold, and she wants to be near it. Rihanna makes perfect intense eye contact with you and says, simply, "Hi."

Scenario #3: You earn enough in your working life to buy a million-pound house or flat.

Let’s dwell on #3, shall we, the least realistic of the scenarios stated above. If you earn the UK median income of £27,300, and spend absolutely nothing on anything, ever, you'll earn your million in about 36-and-a-half years. At that point, you will be just about in a position to buy this bungalow outright, assuming the market does not inflate at any point over those 36 years – that, like, inflation doesn't happen and a pound is not worth what pennies are worth now, and, like, a pint of milk costs £4, or something, because that’s probably what the future will be like, in 36 years. Listen, we're playing scenarios, alright? Scenario #4: everything stays static for 36 perfect years, just long enough for you to buy this house:

You'll notice that this is a sort of shit-hole bungalow that is extremely free of any character at all and is not in any way notable or nice. You'll notice that it's absolutely fine, I guess. It's fine, isn't it! It’s fine. Like: it’s completely fucking vacant, and you’ll want to replace the curtains and carpets and tear that 70s-style brick fireplace out, and the bathroom is quite small, and there is absolutely zero elevation in the place – there are no stairs – but it’s fine, isn’t it. It’s got a garden, it’s got some light, it’s got a couple of rooms. It’s a decent enough size. It’s fine. But also, crucially: it costs one million fucking pounds.

One million! Pounds!

One million pounds!

One! Million! Pounds!

Long time fans of this column (anyone?????????? hello????????) will recall that I loathe having to do any sort of research for this – my m.o. is normally to dip in, slag off the size and position of the bathroom, ignore two or three quite glaring features or lack thereof that people helpfully point out to me on Twitter, then blast out again – but this time I consulted a handful of property people to check this price wasn’t just an elaborate merk. Sadly, friends, it is not.

Firstly, context. The Honor Oak–Forest Hill–East Dulwich trifecta isn’t Zone 1, but it’s desirable enough, and leafy to boot, so it’s not so absurd in this housing market that a nearby flat sold last year for £780,000. Secondly, the niche appeal of the bungalow: normally sold to older folks who flogged the family pile when all the kids moved out, and who are looking for a size downgrade on a massive and kind of throwaway budget, which in London can shoot the price up a lot. Thirdly, the garden sort of gives it planning potential: you could knock the bungalow down, feasibly, rebuild a detached house or modest flat block in its stead, sell either of those on for at least a 50 percent profit. Fourthly, it’s London, and London is absolutely out of control. Fifth, the house has been on the market for a year, so it's fair to say £1 million is considered too steep for buyers so far, but the sellers would probably bite your hand off for anything offered over £850k for this, which in itself is manic. Sixth, the place is boasted as being "newly refurbished", so whoever did that development could be dictating the price. Seventh, and again to reiterate: London is broken and mad. One million pounds. One million pounds. One million! Pounds!

Circle back ever to The Avocado Argument. Once every six weeks a broadsheet newspaper or outspoken entrepreneur will blame millennials for the failings of the housing market, and their silly lives – with their notions of buying brunch and actually paying for takeaway coffee instead of always carrying a flask – will be cited as the reason none of them can buy houses: cut back on the frivolity, they tell us, and save, and you too could have a house one day. And when that happens again – we’re overdue, actually, so the story could drop any day now – please recall this charmless million pound bungalow, and remind me again how many fucking avocados I’m supposed to be eating that prevent me from buying this.