There are some activities that I find deeply disturbing. I am, as I type, embroiled in one such enterprise.

That some people take huge pleasure in this venture is even more worrying. I am house hunting. How Phil and Kirsty seem to garner so much contentment from their continual search for property is beyond me.

There are a number of aspects that make the whole task so arduous. These days a lot of the strain is eased by websites. You can refine your search and add all sorts of criteria before perusing the properties available to you. You can hone in on the perfect pad, see pictures and read creative descriptions of the interior. Your mind begins to wander. Would that duck shell blue paint you saw that time in that nice hotel you stayed in in the Lake District work for the front room? Mentally you have moved in. The next step, arranging a viewing, that’s where the estate agent comes in. That’s where the problems start.

It’s at this point that the house you have grown to love and care for, has actually already been sold. The estate agent “just hasn’t quite got round to updating the website” but they do have “something very similar”.

That is, of course, a lie.

Eventually you decide on a number of properties to see and the opportunity to traipse through other people’s homes changes you. You’re more judgmental than Judge Judy judging a judging contest.

The final twist comes only after you have moved in. Having taken ages to weigh up the pros and cons of the house, the commute to work and the general ambiance, there is one thing you have missed.

What you failed to realise, and of course what wasn’t forthcoming when speaking to the previous owner, is that the house next door is in fact the makeshift studio for death metal band Raucous Torment. Rock on.