It’s not just the bricks—it’s the postcode. Kensington and Belgravia aren’t exactly short on bus stops and Wetherspoons (okay, fine, they don’t have Wetherspoons). The premium is for exclusivity, safety, and the ability to complain about the noise of the silence. And don’t get me started on the schools. If you want your kid to learn Mandarin by age three, you’ll pay a premium for that postcode.
But here’s the real kicker: many of these streets are owned by international investors who visit twice a year. So the houses sit empty, like absurdly expensive museum exhibits. Meanwhile, I’m fighting for a parking space outside a Greggs. Irony: the street with the most money is the one with the least life.
The Takeaway (Not from Dave’s kebab shop)
Look, unless you’re planning to auction off a kidney (and maybe a few others), you probably won’t live on these streets. And that’s fine. Because honestly, who wants a private police force when you can have community spirit? Also, I’d probably spill red wine on the white carpet and be exiled to Weybridge. So let’s celebrate our own streets—the ones with potholes and late-night kebab shops. They’re cheaper, and the stories are better. Just don’t tell Dave I said that.
