I HAVE been trying to buy my first flat for nearly a year now. In the course of my search, house prices have risen so much that I have gone from being able to afford a cupboard-sized flat to a cupboard posing as a flat with a gaping hole in its ceiling.

It is almost guaranteed that anything I find in my price range will have a fatal flaw. I saw one not long ago that had a large front room, period fire-place, spacious kitchen and roof terrace. It was only as the estate agent led me reluctantly into the bedroom that I heard the loud whirring sound of the giant industrial fan of the timber merchants next door, when the penny dropped.

Another flat with pictures on the Internet that had obviously caught its better side turned out to be so pokey that the shower cubicle was next to the cooker in a bathroom-cum-kitchen combo, so you could fry your eggs and bacon as you lathered up in the shower, and anyone in sitting in the garden would catch a clear view of the occupier's toilet. I almost bought that one.

I finally settled on a tiny third floor flat on top of a steep hill with so many stairs that I could happily cancel my gym membership and still stay fit. My heart leapt as I saw the cat flap on the next door neighbour's door, comforted by the prospect of my cat and their cat becoming buddies and playing out together.

The flat itself was a squeeze and I tried to ignore the sound of the howling wind coming in through the great big gaping hole in the roof but the owner told me it would soon be fixed and only became a real problem when it rained. Part of me liked it but most of me just wanted to end the dreary task of finding the perfect home. Similarly depressing to finding the perfect partner, I have come to thinking that neither exists, and that you have to make do with a passable one that won't make your life too unpleasant. But just after I'd bonded with the titchy flat and paid the solicitor and surveyor, the owner decided she was not going to sell.

Until this past year, I could afford to sneer at friends talking about buying homes and what a difficult task was is in the current climate. But I have become my own worst enemy and I can feel people glaze over as I begin yet another discussion on interest rates and fixed rate mortgages with obsessive zeal.

But the year-long search has got me nothing more than a few encounters with dodgy leaseholds, failed surveys, silver-tongued solicitors and some very smelly homes. And having lost nearly £2,000 in the process, I am no closer to ownership. Now I am thinking my way through alternative routes such as buying in France and commuting or living trailer trash-style in a caravan in Eastbourne.