Britain’s accidental one-child policy

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[/audioplayer]The future Mrs Marsh and I wait outside a small Victorian terraced house for an estate agent. It’s a familiar Saturday scene, especially in W7 — the last London postcode before you reach Middlesex and an area I formerly classified as the dark side of the moon. Hanwell is where estate agents are fanning the flames of a house-buying firestorm, like therapists prescribing amphetamines to hyperactive children. Here, as on the edges of so many British cities, middle-class buyers driven from even more expensive districts converge in a desperate bid to find a home. They are desperate because prices rose by almost 20 per cent last year, and are expected to rise even further.

Within two minutes we’ve toured the tiny cottage — gazed in awe (I’m not joking) at the two ‘reception rooms’, the commodious cupboard under the stairs and then with tremulous delight ascended the same flight of stairs, which reminds us that this is not a flat but a house.