It looks like I've lost my biscuit. Some bastard came and stole it from under my nose.

It all revolves around honour and a loft.

I'd found this nice, two bed flat (there, I can say it!) in Finsbury Park (north London). It didn't scream at me, but it would be a good place to live. Good space, nice area, nice street, near good friends, good pubs and good restaurants. Crappy decor, but that's by the by. Nothing a lick of paint, a pair of curtains or a blind and a stripped floor can't fix. So I decide to make an offer.

The person selling is a guy called Rob, doctor by trade. He and his wife are asking 185k. I offer 180k. They say fine they'll take that, but for 185k (their asking price) I can get it with an extended leasehold and the large loft added to the property, on which Dr Rob is spending five grand. I says hmm.

They say they have another guy interested without the loft at 182k, coming at them through a different estate agency, but would still prefer the whole loft deal. I says fine, 185 with the loft.

This is all through my estate agent, remember. Rob and I never speak. It's all "Rob says this" and "Ben says that".

They say great we're good to go, give me 10 days to get my affairs in order, and the estate agents draw up the papers and inform our solicitors.

Fast forward a few days while I get details of my mortgage finalised and let Nightshift Ben loose on the world.

Then yesterday morning, the agent (guy called Milo, very chirpy) comes back to me saying the other guy has upped his offer to 183 without loft and lease, and Rob prefers that, for some reason. What do I want to do?

So I hums and haws a little, then go back and say, okay 184 without the loft and lease.

So I'm still a grand over this other guy.

Estate agent comes back to me in the afternoon and says no go. Says Rob's Japanese wife (who up until this point has played no part in the dialogue) has actually met this other prospective purchaser and liked him, says she feels honour bound to sell to him.

Seems like she doesn't have too much of this honour stuff to spare, though. She hasn't met me. so apparently doesn't care about keeping to the deal I've agreed with her husband.

Rob tells Milo he's totally under the thumb on this issue and doesn't have a say. The only way he'll be able to sell to me if is he gets divorced.

So while I'm offering more money than the other guy, and good to go right this minute cos I've done all my mortgage negotiation, I don't get a look in. All that effort from myself, my folks and Milo for nothing.

Milo fuming. Mum and Dad fuming. Me tired. Probably would fume and spit and snarl had I the energy, but don't. Feel unusually upbeat instead, in the mood for cheesy pop - the likes of S Club, Steps and Britney, plus a bit of Gomez and Bill Withers - and New York Super Fudge Chunk. Strange how I react to bad news.

We've gone back to them with their full asking price of 185, to see whether the wife's deep sense of honour can be bought for another grand, but it looks like it's back to square one.

Scuppered by London property's answer to Yoko Ono.