Why my friends love the idea of a nasty, stupid mansion tax

I see all the flaws with a mansion tax, I really do. And yet some little piece of me, some tribal chip within my soul, rejoices at the thought of one. So do not expect the sympathy of the young, you owners of ‘perfectly normal houses’, now classed, however bizarrely, as the homes of the super-rich. For they will turn away from you when the taxman comes knocking, with a sudden geronticidal steel in their eyes. And you may be hurt, and you may feel righteously aggrieved. But do not be surprised.

I live in London, in a house which is not a mansion. Indeed, it is probably not even half of a mansion. For seasoned watchers of property in London — which is many people in London — that brief description (particularly the ‘probably’) will be enough for you to pinpoint my circumstances. It’s a terrace in a decentish part of London, near a goodish school. A hundred miles north they would keep goats in a tumbly wreck like this, or more likely have knocked it down to build something more sensible and less picturesque. Yet here and now, I am among the golden elect. Yes, I have a handful of peers who live in better homes. But I have many, many more who live in worse.

These are not society’s disadvantaged, not even nearly. Nor are they the very young, with unknowable futures full of possibility. They are graduates and professionals in their thirties or forties. Often they have a kid or two and they cram themselves into garden flats, if they are lucky. Barring massive inheritance or lottery win, these people — and there are legions of them — will never afford the likes of my probably-not-even-half-a-mansion, unless they leave their city, go north and kick out the aforementioned goats.