But recently bog-standard British estate agents have started appearing in my feed in their best suits, presenting properties best described as “fine, I suppose”. Standing on damp gravel under leaden skies, a middle-aged man who is definitely not Manhattan super-agent Ryan Serhant tries to hype up a 1960s cube in a Yorkshire cul-de-sac. In Clapham, another man with a jaunty pocket square holds a tiny mic as he enthuses over a “starter home” with a stained carpet and not a hint of an infinity pool.