Like a vegan walking past a butcher shop window, a prime cut poster gleaming from the window, so too we steel ourselves, assume the higher road and clench our teeth at that first image of subdivided land. We could try to explain to ol’ mates Oren and Matty boy that it’s homes like these – local pinnacles of design, craftsmanship, materials and mature gardens which stand the test of time and could never be replicated today for under several million (and that’s if you can find a good joiner/parquetry guy/architect). We could plead with the sellers that one does not break down a gullwing Mercedes for parts, not tip out the ’94 Grange so you can store salad dressing in the bottle. Nor does one rip out a Whitely sketch to pop in their own watercolour dabble in the frame, nor unpick a mint ’63 Chanel suit to make some natty new placemats. So why, oh why, don’t our Mid Century architecture wonders command even a 10th of that respect?