SUZY Maas has bought, decorated and resold her homes, five times in six years, to make a handsome profit.

And much of her experience has gone into her house-doctoring company. She knows that certain simple changes do emphatically push up the price you can ask for your home, and that decluttering is more than just cleaning the windows and hanging up your clothes.

“It is worth spending a little money on getting rid of dusty curtains and replacing them with white, light-reflecting blinds, and putting fresh, white grouting into the bathroom tiles. Little things have a huge impact,” Maas says.

She has done it so many times that her contacts book is full of bargain warehouse addresses, wholesale shops and markets, where she picks up the accessories that save busy Londoners a lot of hassle, time and money.

Maas, 30, started the Final Touch, a housedoctor service for people wanting to prepare their home for rental or resale, in 1999. She offers moneysaving tips and is forever bargain hunting for clients. She charges £75 an hour or £475 plus VAT a day for her services.

She trained as an interior decorator and in 1998 went in search of her first home. Maas bought a dark, three-bedroom Battersea flat for £125,000. “It was like a train compartment, with all the rooms running off the corridor. I gutted and renovated it on a shoestring,” she says. She spent £12,000 on improving it and sold it a year later for £175,000.

Next came the three-bedroom house in Clapham that had been rented out for years. “It was damp and smelly. I put in a new bathroom, kitchen and redecorated,” she says. (Purchase price: £141,000. Spent: £22,000. Sold 18 months later for £240,000.) Her subsequent south London property required a loft conversion. “Cosmetic changes included repainting the kitchen units and retiling,” she says. (Profit made 18 months later was £69,000.) Then there was the four-bedroom house in Brixton in 2000. “I knocked through and extended to make one big kitchen, divided the huge bathroom into two – essential in a four bedroom house – and stripped acres of woodwork,” says Maas. (Purchase price: £275,000. Spent: £41,000. Sold 12 months later for £380,000.) She has learnt from her mistakes. “Before making decisions, it’s best to live in the property. I’ve also made the mistake of choosing colours from charts instead of painting samples on the wall. I’ve forgotten to keep fabric and colour references for touching up. I’ve dispensed with an architect after they have submitted drawings, instead of retaining them for spotting problems and dealing with builders’ disputes, which saves money ultimately,” says Maas.

But she has flair, targets her market precisely and has enjoyed a buoyant property market. “It’s getting harder. So many people are doing it that it’s difficult to find a wreck,” she admits.

Her current three-bedroom Victorian home is in Clapham. She lives there with her boyfriend.

“It hadn’t been touched for 20 years. I put in sash windows, rewired, renovated, redecorated, added a bathroom and extended the kitchen with a glass roof to the side return,” she says.

Thriftily, she changed the ancient nylon carpet for an oatmeal wool Berber for just £12.99 a square metre; made her chenille curtains (£5 a metre at Brixton market) in the bedroom, and bought a stylish oak refectory table with eight dining chairs – for £ 2,000 f rom The Collection in Parsons Green.

The cramped, dark kitchen had broken appliances, Seventies pine and severe damp. “It was like a dark tunnel,” she says. Now, measuring 15ft by 30ft, it is a light and contemporary Alternative Plans creation.

It has glossy tusk-coloured Hacker units, chunky brushed-steel handles, lime-white walls, a mushroom limestone floor, durable quartz/ granite work surfaces, a range cooker and modish Bisque floor-level radiators.

The bathrooms are equally stylish. Out went the migraine-inducing wallpaper, handheld plastic shower and rotten timber bath panels. In came fawns, ceramic limestone-effect tiles (£27 a square metre) and a double-ended Bette bath. She built another bathroom with Castle Grey walls, skylights, Bateige grey tiles on the walls (“£34 a square metre”) and a sheet of sturdy glass as a shower wall. Its elegant wall-hung Saneux loo, elongated Plan basin and star-shaped shower came from Bathrooms at Source.

The house is an eclectic mix. “I like modern with old,” Maas says. In the sitting room, the look is traditional. The walls are crisp calico and there is a Sixties American oval glass and perspex table. But there is also an 18th century French commode and a period Venetian mirror.

Similarly, her Dix Blue bedroom has modern nickel pedestal side tables, a funky mirrored fireplace and fauxfur bed throw. But it also has a Chippendale tallboy, Louis XVI armchairs and an ornate bedhead (“a junk shop find”) of mirror, gilt and turquoise-painted wood.

Maas has perhaps inherited her mother’s passion.

When she was a child, her mother relocated annually over six years. “For years we just moved to parallel streets,” she remembers.

Many people find uprooting stressful and hate renovating properties. “Every time I move, I swear it is the last. Then I get bored.” She has lived in her current home since 2002. It must be time to sell? “Oh no,” she exclaims. “I adore this place.” A week later, she calls with a confession: “I’ve just put the house on the market.”

HOW to get the look
The Final Touch, 12 St John’s Hill Grove, SW11 (020 7228 4233; www.thefinaltouch.co.uk).
Dining table and chairs: The Collection, 76 New Kings Road, SW6 (020 7736 1166; www.thecollection.uk.com).
Floor-level radiators: Bisque Radiators, 244 Belsize Road, NW6 (020 7328 2225; www.bisque.co.uk).
Contemporary Boffi and Hacker kitchen: Alternative Plans, 4 Hester Road, SW11 (020 7228 6460; www.alternativeplans.co.uk) and 160 Notting Hill Gate, W11 (020 7243 9747).
Carpet: Carpet Base, 190 Cavendish Road, SW12 (020 8675 2232).
Bathrooms: Bathrooms at Source, 128 Garratt Lane, SW18, (020 8870 0066).
Paint: Farrow & Ball, 249 Fulham Road, SW3 (020 7351 0273).
Bateige tiles: Granite and Marble International, Westminster House, 35 Pensbury Place, SW8 (020 7498 2742).
Limestone-effect tiles: Moores Building Merchants, 35 Bedford Road, SW4 (020 7737 3539).
Where to get paints colour-matched: Handyman’s Corner, 138 Acre Lane, SW2, (020 7733 1149); Homebase; B&Q.
Architect: Martin Reynolds, 14 St John’s Hill Grove, SW11 (020 7223 1420).
Architectural salvage yards: Bacon Street Salvage, 12 Bacon Street, E1 (020 7613 4672); Old Time Architectural Salvage, 217 Blackshaw Road, SW17 (020 8672 7205).
Fabrics: from markets such as Brixton and Southall, and large retailers such as Fabrics Galore, 52-54 Lavender Hill, SW11 (020 7738 9589), Fabrics Direct (0800 975 7296).
Second-hand/antique items: household clearance shops, junk shops or country antiques fairs.
Many large retailers have clearance shops selling discontinued lines and damaged stock: Sofa Workshop, 8 High Street, Ealing Broadway Centre, W5 (020 8579 0693); Ocean Furniture, 2 Trevelyan Road, SW17 (020 8672 2020); some large retailers such as Heal’s often have one-off clearance sales, ask in-store for details.
Furniture warehouses: Comfortably Off, 70a Silverthorne Road, SW8 (020 7622 9393).
Auction rooms: Lots Road Auctions, 71 Lots Road, SW10 (020 7376 6800); Criterion Auctions, 41-47 Chatfield Rd, SW11 (020 7228 5563) and 53-55 Essex Road, Islington, N1 (020 7359 5707).

When her father was taken to hospital last month after a car crash, Caroline Phillips prepared herself for an NHS horror story. What happened was very different.

“The doctors and nurses in intensive care were superb – honest but supportive”

They say you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone. Equally, with the NHS, you don’t know what you’ve got until you need it.

On May 9 this year, my 79-year-old father, Ronald, careered off the M4 at over 70mph. He hurtled across three lanes on a busy Friday at 2.30pm, down a verge and hit a tree. Miraculously he missed all the other vehicles around him.

It was an hour before emergency services were able to cut him out of his car; then a helicopter landed by the motorway and airlifted him to Oxford’s John Radcliffe Hospital. I only heard about it at 4pm. “Dad’s been in a major car crash,” sobbed my younger brother, Simon. “He’s got serious head and leg injuries …”

In the emergency room, we found our father: a frozen lump with a face the size of two footballs. He was on a ventilator, sprouting wires, bags and drips and tethered to monitors. He’d sustained fractures to his pelvis and one foot, a deep ankle wound and fractures to 10 ribs and his sternum – giving him a life-threatening flail chest [where the rib cage compresses, rather than expands, on breathing]. We were told he might also have had a heart attack, plus brain and internal organ damage.

“There’s only so much we can do,” warned the anaesthetist. “We’ll try to get him to breathe on his own later – but he has to want to help us.”

I’ve had a complex relationship with my father, a sometimes tricky, adorably eccentric and essentially kind family man. Now he was dying, with so much left unsaid. “You can talk to him,” said a nurse, sympathetically. “We think hearing is the last thing to go.” I whispered thanks to him for looking after me since I was 13 when my mother bolted; for my great education; and for being an incredible grandfather. I told him that I loved him. I begged him to live.

But standing amid the artificially ventilated bodies with my anguished half-sister, Dara, I was terrified – my fears fuelled by all the scare stories I’d read about the NHS. Weren’t these doctors exhausted and incompetent? Wasn’t Dad destined for a hospital-acquired infection? At his age, wouldn’t our father be a low priority? Wouldn’t these medics just leave him to die? Frantically, I phoned consultant friends in London, trying to engineer the best possible care.

Yet, while I panicked over the state of the health service, the John Radcliffe’s staff worked with professionalism and dedication. We were kept constantly informed. A doctor phoned and briefed my consultant friend so that I could discuss the prognosis with someone I trusted; the anaesthetist urged our family to eat: “You’ve got a long night ahead of you.”

At midnight, Dad went into theatre. I prayed that my elder brother, David, flying from New York, would see him alive.

By 2.30am our father was in intensive care (ICU), off his ventilator – to the astonishment of doctors – conversing intelligently and joking. It was a miracle. And surreal. He had, according to doctors, defied all odds by surviving. The nurse showed me a Polaroid of his car, a Toyota. It looked like a foil wrapper crunched in the fist of a giant. He had only been saved by his airbag.

He stayed in ICU for a week. For four days, Dara slept in the relatives’ waiting room. My father’s condition remained critical, his breathing difficult, his heart irregular. There was the possibility he would contract pneumonia. Then he would have died. “It’s far harder being a relative than a patient in ICU,” remembered David, who had experienced intensive care after a spinal operation.

For 17 consecutive days, I drove the round trip from London. (In order to fit everything in, Simon would get to his desk in the antiques gallery founded by our father, at 5am.) It was physically and psychologically exhausting. Illness aside, Dad’s occasional morphine-induced confusion was frightening. “Did you put my V&A invitation in the orange juice?” he asked. Another time he smiled: “I’m on a boat.” (He’d been on a bedpan.) With the stress, my hair started to fall out in clumps; when I told Dara she said the same had happened to her.

We became part of a hidden community, patients’ relatives riding a terrifying roller-coaster. The young woman, careworn after three days of waiting to see if her sister was brain-damaged. The Lancashire couple, living in their mobile home in the car park, and despairing for their son whose pancreatic operation had left him on life support. “You don’t expect people to get infections in hospital,” said his father, tears welling in his eyes.

But, despite all my preconceptions, the nurses and doctors in ICU offered superlative medical care. They were also psychologically astute, honest but supportive. They always went the extra mile. One day, attaching an oxygen supply and face mask, they put our father in a wheelchair to enjoy the sun on the terrace. A nurse also put up with our touching belief in alternative therapies – decrying it as anecdotal, while authorising our use of Bach Rescue Remedy.

It was a tough decision whether to take our children, aged 12 and 10, to visit their grandfather at a unit where one woman wailed as if in permanent labour and many patients were wearing contraptions (metal halos) on their heads that looked better suited to a carpenter’s bench than a hospital. But the girls, distressed at not seeing him, wanted to go. Sensitively, nurses shielded them from the brutal sights by pulling the curtains around patients’ beds.

The demands on us as a family have been high. We’ve divided our father’s affairs among ourselves – as if dealing with a death but without the funeral arrangements. Paying bills, sorting insurance, cancelling appointments, arranging visitors, researching future medical care, taking him food and tending his dog, Pingu, who’d been in the accident with him and had a ruptured spleen. (A witness whisked him to the vet’s where, unbelievably, they performed an emergency splenectomy. Pingu is 14 – 98 years old in human terms – but his old age did not preclude treatment either.)

And as we faced the possibility of parental abandonment, rivalry, stresses and strains came to the fore. “It’s a myth that dysfunctional families suddenly pull together in a time of crisis,” said one friend, a family therapist. Instead, events have highlighted our family’s maladjustments. Perhaps a positive way to look at it is that we’ve had a dress rehearsal for a parent dying and can make changes before the final curtain.

Our father remained for two weeks in the trauma ward, one of the best in the country, where overstretched staff are as attentive as possible, efficient and reassuring. His private health insurance policy with Saga Health Plan proved to be a saga: he’d paid thousands, but at a lower premium because of agreeing to accept NHS care if the state could treat him within four weeks – thereby effectively nullifying his access to private healthcare for this condition. So he had to wait to be “repatriated” (as medics dub moving a patient to their local hospital) to Chelsea and Westminster on the NHS, as there wasn’t a bed for two weeks.

Meanwhile I’m counting my blessings. Sixty years since it began, we’ve experienced the NHS at its best. And this episode has enriched my relationship with my father. There’s the chance to love him for longer. His dog visited him yesterday: one patient hobbling on four legs, the other unable yet to stand unaided on two. Above all, staff at the John Radcliffe deserve nothing but praise. So, too, our father who, thanks to the NHS, has foiled the Grim Reaper this time.