We spent six months looking for a house. We trudged from house inspection to house inspection on weekends. We looked at run-down shacks with carpet that smelt like pee. We looked at nicer suburbs further out with houses nestled on tiny little blocks of land that a professional long-jumper could probably clear with a good run-up.

Daniel's parents came back from their six-month holiday recently, and now we are living with them because when we came to house-sit for them, we packed up everything in our flat and sod me with a pitchfork if I am going to do the five round-trips back to my old place and unpack everything just to have to pack it all up again in a couple of months' time.

Daniel's mum said that Nanna, who passed away about a year ago, was probably looking down on us and saying: "Nope, not that one. You don't want that one. You just wait, I have just the place for you - they just don't know they want to sell yet."

Daniel's dad, who was passing through the room at the time, said between mouthfuls of toast: "Yep, that definitely sounds like Nanna."

A nice sentiment but not of any immediate help. Fine, she may have picked out a bloody house for us, but if we weren't getting out every weekend and looking, we wouldn't find it, would we? Nanna, I know you loved gory horror movies. Why couldn't you write an address (and perhaps driving directions) on a bathroom mirror in scary red lipstick like other ghosts?

Anyway.

Last weekend we went to a house inspection and immediately decided to put in an offer that afternoon. We got the agent's email address and did it all as soon as we got home. About six other couples had also made offers so we weren't too hopeful. We waited to hear back, but no word.

Turned out we had typoed the frigging email address and our offer was never received. Ours was the second highest bid, and the higehst bidder had pulled out at the last minute, so we would have got the place if our email had gone through. Instead, the agent called the next highest bidder and they signed the contract that day.

The tiny little Incredible Hulk in my head was by this point running around my brain smashing things. Of all the daft reasons to miss out on a house - by far the nicest house we had seen in six months - this surely tops the list. A fucking typo? As an editor that pissed me off in all sorts of exciting and innovative ways. Why did I let Daniel type up that stupid email? Why didn't I look over his shoulder and proofread it?

So we sat down again that evening and, like most other evenings, got back on the 'net and looked up more real estate.

I found a place I hadn't noticed before, one that looked - well, interesting at least. Bits were classy and other bits were amazingly 1970s, full of timber walls, diagonally panelled. (Daniel: 'It looks like a sauna!') It was 6:45PM but Daniel suggested I try calling the real estate agent anyway, so I did. We couldn't inspect it that night, he told us (yes, miraculously he answered the phone at that hour), because he had to give the tenants 24 hours' notice - but if we wanted to come out at 7:30 that evening, he knew of a nice place that wasn't on the market yet. Sick of missing out because of inaction, I agreed to go out even though I had no idea if the place would be worth it. We scoffed dinner and drove out.

... and made an offer that night, which was accepted. We're putting down a deposit this weekend and exchanging contracts in a month.

The place is perfect for us, and with four bedrooms rather than just the three we were looking for. Timber floorboards, gas stove, air conditioned, a front yard and a back yard (NB those are getting expensive in Sydney these days), on a completely private battleaxe block.

As it turns out, the real estate guy will be our next-door neighbour. He wasn't acting on behalf of the real estate agents when he mentioned that this house was for sale - the vendors wanted to do a private sale and he was just being a good neighbour and helping them out.

Now we just need to get the removalists to get the last of our furniture out of our flat so we can start renting it out (capitalist piglets!).

I guess Nanna did know best after all.