I'm currently searching for a house in London, an experience which any Londoner will tell you can be hectic at the best of times. The market moves in hours not days, where something you've seen before lunch has been taken off the market before you've finished your Pret a Manger Super Club.

There tend to be a few different kinds of agents you'll experience on your way through hell; the Wideboy, the Sloane, the Chelsea Pro, the Massimo and, occasionally, when very very lucky, you'll get a Genuine. You'll quickly stereotype your agent within the first few seconds of your unfortunate acquaintance.

On entering the establishment the lettings girl will waft through from the back of the office wearing a shirt, denim skirt and flip flops, and, just when you're wondering if she actually works there, she continues her vague gesture toward professionalism by absolutely ensuring she has enough cigarettes in her bag for her trip out of the office. Bang - Sloane.

In stark contrast you meet the Chelsea Pro. She roars up to the property having stolen you off her own colleague. She means business. This time it's a hugging dress, killer heels and she knows how to walk at what seems a frightening pace; outstretched hand, "Jane...". While you feel safe in the knowledge she's a fierce professional, she scares the life out of you. You're told, "You can't afford to mess around, you need to view, offer, seal" and you hurriedly mumble something in fear of being paddled on your bare buttocks. She's the kind of girl the Wideboy would pretend he'd bedded.

He most certainly never has though, and never will. He's slick, but oily. Cheap and certainly cock-sure. He's apparently very, very good at his job, but totally fails to convince you the 1960s 3 bed is as "stunning" as he makes out. There's nothing wrong with him, apart from his discount loafers, and he means well - as long as you get him his commission. You won't be doing business with this guy and, to be fair, would slightly begrudge him his bonus from your signature.

The Massimo feels like a cool breeze after the Wideboy. A silver-fox tennis player happy to drop you anywhere in Fulham if it suits, you just have to straddle his racket bag in the front seat. He amuses you with his knowledge of parrots having seen a strange man walking past the office holding one at arms length. Ultimately, his offerings are utterly useless, and potentially totally ignore the alarming straight-forward brief. You don't mind though, as he's a nice guy and essentially has more use as a taxi driver taking you to a competitors office. Bye Massimo.

Then, when you're really down, you meet the Genuine. He's a bit of everyone; a happy medium. You feel like he's on your side and after a while, no matter who you are, you let your guard down. He lays down the facts and gives you time. If you get one, you hang on to him like you do a sofa in Starbucks - smugly smiling to passers by and sneering at anyone who tries to share, like a jealous boyfriend.

While I've found a house that's essentially perfect, other things need ironing out before we can go ahead. I just hope I can deal with Mr Genuine sooner rather than later.