All the places I’ll never live: the luxury yacht

This can jet from Miami to the Bahamas in two hours, which would make going home for lunch a truly global affair

One day Mr Gill, my last landlord, who had a truly poetic way with words, turned up unannounced. “You have four weeks to leave,” he declared, explaining that property prices locally had spiked since the Olympics, and now “even this shithole’s worth half a mill”. It seemed a lot for a humble four-bed, shared between six, that shook when you slammed the front door.

“But I’ve only just settled in,” I protested. Mr Gill was the kind of landlord you could depend on for two things: never to respond to your calls and to be inappropriately smug whenever possible. “You’re too young to be settling. You should be discovering new neighbourhoods, like I did with this place. It’ll pay off eventually. Just pack light. You can’t take it with you, after all.”