Clayhall

Clayhall spent two centuries changing hands without anyone bothering to write its name down, and the interwar builders who finally turned up kept that tradition going with street after street of semis you can only tell apart by the front door. The manor that gave the place its name is long gone. The clay is still here, under every bay window, and every surveyor in east London knows it. Buyers come for the drive, the garden and the third bedroom, then spend their first dry summer watching the hairline crack above the porch to see which way it's heading.