Strange times

It wasn’t how it’s meant to be.

Everything’s supposed to go quiet in the week before the fellow in the red suit crashes down the chimney.

Not last Christmas.

Phones ran hot, sellers faced the reality that if they didn’t deal pre-Christmas it was all over, and suddenly the SOLD signs were going up.

Never seen anything like it. The last signature we saw on a dotted line was at 8pm on Christmas eve.

But then, post-Christmas, it’s supposed to pick up down on the coast.

Supposed to. Always does.

It was a desert.

Apart from hobby farms lingering with little interest on the peninsula, there was nothing near the beach that would arouse a significant cheque book.

Back in the smoke, over the last couple of weeks there’s been another rush on. Serious re-pricing has seen some of last year’s immovable objects jump off their shelves and into the arms of a big-ticket buyer who has become more common since Christmas: the returning expat.

The locals? They were where you’d expect to find them: by the sea or on the slopes of Aspen.

The Chinese? Awaiting The Year of The Sheep.

Footfalls of the elephants

We hear them over great distances. They suggest the trophy market is stabilising.

Enquiries are solid and, if the price and property is right, so is the interest.

The challenge is among the vendors and those are coming in three categories:

  • The Realist. Will meet the market on price.
  • The Hoper. “It’s my price or…”
  • The Strato-fisher. “If I ask for an idiot amount, maybe there’s an idiot.”

The Quiz

Nice suit. Shiny smile.

Says something. Means anything.

Harangues crowds.

Needs you. Says the opposite.

Rates somewhere near the bottom of Morgan’s Professions Survey.

Pollie or estate agent?



Off-market continues to take an ever-increasing slice of the pie.

Last week?

46,000 square feet of Lansell Road sold to an expat for somewhere north of 18. Pre-Christmas, the locals grew shy at much over 16.

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