I'd like to move it move it

Sometimes, when Mr B is away and I'm feeling lonely, or when I need a little fantasy, I guiltily go to the website that's guaranteed to start me dreaming of the exotic, get me a little excited as I imagine another, more decadent, lifestyle. It offers photo after photo to admire, and tempting descriptions of what's on offer at prices I could never afford.

I do love Rightmove.

What did you think I was talking about?

I tell myself I'm tracking the house prices and gauging which local buyers might be most desperate to sell at the point we want to buy. And that is true - I'm ever practical. But we won't be moving any time soon, what with me being shakily self-employed and all. So what is it that's so compelling in particular about looking at house particulars?

Isn't it obvious? Well, let's choose two things.

Aspiration
This one near me has a floorplan that would cover most of my street, slightly incongruous decor, 1.4 acres and, apparently, a horse thrown into the deal. This one has (count 'em) 11 bedrooms, 7 acres and an indoor swimming pool. You can do any random search in any town and come up with examples of beautiful houses in stunning settings that one day, maybe, if you obey the capitalist imperative or win the lottery, might be yours. It's a dream, at least until you visit someone new (as I did last week) whose utility room is the size of my kitchen and their kitchen is the size of my ground floor. And next door's too. And then you wonder why you don't have that. And you conveniently forget that you haven't spent two years, as they did, living in a caravan while a barn was painstakingly converted around them. But the final result is something to aspire to. One day, you say, it will all be mine.

Descriptions
Some estate agents are straight-down-the-line - pure descriptions with no frills (although unnecessarily updating their content every couple of days - well, unnecessary if you take optimising search results out of the equation). But there are only so many ways you can describe a fitted bathroom so others let their poetic side come to the fore. Take this description of an unexceptional overpriced bungalow: "A beech tree stands sentry to welcome you in to this house in the country, a new life can begin. The land folds around you so fertile and rich, to grow your own food and enjoy this fine pitch. Standing though centuries, built between wars, High Trees is just ready and waiting to be yours." I would do a little editing on the contradictory prose if I didn't suspect it's tongue-in-cheek. This is clearly targeting the "up from London" market of vulnerable, redundant and repetent bankers taking their payouts to fund a rural idyll for a couple of years until they can't bear the Starbucks withdrawal symptoms and go back to Highgate. One estate agent in a town I know well takes the personal touch a little too far by always including an "Our view " paragraph in its descriptions. Of course, this is always a gushing view, never a "over-decorated, damp problem" view, while still not avoiding thorny questions likely to be asked by discerning buyers. Choice (unedited) examples: "It doesn't have a swimming pool or tennis court ... nothing like that... but it has got something much more important than all those things...Location". Also try: "Describing this magnificent property as simply four bedroom detached is belittling it beyond measure." It's unsophisticated stuff but it easy to warm to the enthusiasm of the writer - I'm not one for passion but I can see why she stands out from the crowd. Marketing copywriters have a lot to learn from estate agents.

Having said all that, I actually go straight for the floorplan and the photos, which I suppose is odd for a words person. But houses, like relationships, are an emotional investment, selected and rejected on the smallest whim. We saw 22 houses before seeing the one we bought. Almost all were bigger, newer, didn't back onto a car park - but we saw it and we loved it and we bought it. Of course, we're paying the price now - both literally as its value has dropped back down to what we bought it for, despite years of renovation, and metaphorically as it gets smaller every day. I am currently typing at a tiny uncomfortable desk beside Mr B's in our bedroom, wishing for a study. See what I mean about aspiration? I don't really want an 11 bedroom house - too much cleaning - but I'd settle for an extra room.

And a kitchen the size of a sports hall.

I've just blown in from Windy Castle

You've got to respect the evil genius who came up with the idea for Peppa Pig World. You've also got to respect the evil genius who came up with Peppa Pig, but that's for a different post that I won't be writing. I have seen enough of the winsome adenoidal juvenile piggie participating in a variety of unthreatening yet knowingly ironic humorous activities with her eccentric middle-class family and colourful cast of alliterating animals. Usually I check my emails on my phone while Monkeyrina has her daily fix. Once she asked for the same episode 8 times in succession. It wasn't even one of the classics (the "Who is Miss Rabbit?" one, for example, or the funfair episode that has led to a family catchphrase of "A pound?!" every time we have waste cash on some useless child-related frippery.) No, it was the obscure tooth fairy episode, which Monkeyrina seems to have regarded as training for her future career of sneaking into people's homes at night to rummage under their pillows. It's not a typical way for dentists to behave but, who knows, perhaps the NHS cuts and the public's unwillingness to pay for private treatment are having an effect.

So one day this evil genius strode into a boardroom with an evil proposal to unite the popular toddler religion of Peppadom with new and imaginative ways of extracting money from their parents ("A pound?!"). Take one obscure and slightly shabby Hampshire theme park, mix with an expensively procured licence, spend £6 million on design and build, invest in a frankly ubiquitous marketing campaign, await pester power and sit back and enjoy the profits.

Happy exicted toddlers, happy revitalised Paulton's Park, happy A1 Entertainment shareholders.

And the parents?

We got there at opening time on a Tuesday in June and it was absolutely heaving. Batallions of pushchairs and purposeful striding towards the comparatively small corner of the park in which Peppa resides. The queues for each ride were half an hour or more - just what you need when potty training. I've never seen so many tantrums, and that was just the mums.

But I have to admit it was well done. It's new, of course, so not yet covered in kiddie sick and chewed gum. It was clever and colourful and lovingly created - just like the TV series. The rides were well judged for the riders' ages, and the playground was one of the best I've seen (and, believe me, I've seen a lot). All the main characters were there, and even some quite obscure ones, which Mr B (who doesn't always have his phone handy when reruns are on) was able to identify for us. There were even people (I assume they were people) in Peppa and George suits, greeting their loyal subjects. Monkeyrina wasn't fooled, however - she knows the real Peppa is made of stone and can be accessed via a hole in the TV.

So what? Well, the fact of it being a promotional triumph, a case study in creating and fulfilling a demand, should be enough. But some other points struck me:

• The pricing structure was unique in my experience - no children's discounts - anyone under a metre is free and anyone over a metre pays £21. ("21 pounds?! That's a lot of pocket money"). 
• There was an overpriced snack bar, of course but we, in a rare moment of proper parenthood, had brought our sandwiches. Our ironic bacon sandwiches. There were no obvious picnic tables, at least none I spotted until after perching on a bench munching Peppa's relatives. Bringing your own food rather than purchasing it from the park did not seem to be encouraged.
• The rest of the park, and there was quite a lot of it, was virtually deserted. This probably tells you something about why Paultons and Peppa were united but is also a good tip if you don't want to queue for what Monkeyrina called the adult roundabout.
• I hear there's a Dolly Parton World. I wonder if it's similar?

Nothing we could offer for the rest of the holiday quite lived up to such toddler heaven. Even the Isle of Wight ferry, although it was a close-run thing. Now we're back in Home World (so to speak) and, after spending all that money, we have our photos to remind us of the day, and they're free. Apart from the official portrait of Moneyrina in Madam Gazelle's classroom. That was £8 ("8 pounds?!") but she looks so happy to be meeting her heroes, even if they were not made of stone, that we we were happy to spend it. 

So there's some inspiration for the cynical for you, right there.

More sales for the cynical

It is late. I am tired. I have spent my Saturday night writing (gasp, cynical readers) sales letters. Steel yourself. I like spending my Saturday night writing sales letters. I also like spending my Saturday night dining at a Michelin-starred restaurant in a designer dress - but that doesn't happen very often. Well, OK. It doesn't happen at all. So I spend my Saturday night writing sales letters.

And (gasp again, cynical reader, and shake your head in despair) I like writing sales letters.

Is that wrong? Is it unethical? Should I have spent the evening bandaging the broken legs of badgers or lobbying parliament to make chocolate fudge brownies illegal for the sake of an overweight nation?

Some people would say that I should. A retired friend hinted the other day that her career as a primary school teacher was a far nobler vocation than advertising and communications consultancy. I could have argued (but didn't) that there's a good pinch of copywriting (reports) and copy-editing (stories) in that job too. I could have argued (but didn't) that I too am unlocking the potential of hundreds of minds.

Where is the greater good after all? There are very few completely useless jobs out there - professional footballer and It girl are the only ones that spring to my mind. I want to help people using the skills I happen to have - creating clear text means clear messaging means a clear route to sales. Whether those sales are of Clinique or textbooks or park benches, they are sales to someone who wants the item being sold. So they get want they want - or need - and the company thrives.

I couldn't have been a doctor, as I don't like blood. Or pain. Or ill people. And my mum told me never to be a teacher. She was a teacher. I could have been a lawyer but there's a career that's not exactly short on ethical dilemmas. So here I am, writing sales letters, and worrying about punctuation, and promoting the power of the written word to make the world a better place. And I like it.