ON TRUTH IN ADVERTISING

I recently likened a house to a Manhattan loft. The property felt cosmopolitan, urbane, as if it might have been drifted to town on steel cables strung beneath the mother of all choppers. A home that might have been pinched from the Marvel universe. Tony Stark in a bathrobe, steaming cappuccino.

I also compared a low-slung bungalow to a long boat moored curb-side. I had in mind a royal blue barge tied up along the canal in Hackney. I have photos somewhere.

There’s nothing wrong with evoking the far-off to describe the local. I like suggesting that connections can be made and sustained over great distances. “Like gold to airy thinness beat,” as John Donne said so immaculately of love.

However, I am much less fond of making forty-five minute drives to rural properties that have been described in the listing copy as being “twenty-five minutes to town”. I feel as if time, and a few moments, have been stolen from me. I tend to hold a grudge too, which means I am less likely in the future to recommend a house listed by the same agent.

This morning a house was listed as being in downtown’s Fruit Belt neighbourhood. Only it isn’t. Not even very close. The hope, I’m sure, was to locate the property (in the mind’s eye at least) in an area that doesn’t involve a busy arterial road at the front door. Something closer to the downtown core. And to make it a more valuable house by association.

Trouble is, this mis-labelling implies that the actual location needs to be disguised (never a good start). There is also the reasonable assumption to be made that this casual approach to geography might seep into other representations.

It’s an odd time to be playing fast and loose, is what I’m feeling. People are uneasy, they hold tightly onto their cash. My dad used to tell us kids (far too often) that when he was riding his bike home from the British Leyland factory back in the 1970s, he would check his back pocket pocket at least a dozen times, to make sure his paycheque was still in there. Well buyers in today’s real estate market are at least as cautious and nearly as worried. The faintest whiff of something poorly described, or a question not answered satisfactorily, is enough to send them packing (only not in the good way).

318 QUEEN ST

LISTED AT $499,000. I’m very fond of the well-restored cottages in Kingston’s downtown core. They sit well with me, feel like small, perfect treasures sewn into the city’s tapestry. 318 Queen St is a fine example, a star pupil. You are right downtown, of course, which means all your favourite shops and restaurants are right around the corner, and the university and hospitals are only a short walk.

TOM TRAUBERT’S BLUES

My daughter hates Tom Waits’ music, or pretends to because she is sixteen and gets a kick out of suggesting there is a gulf between us. Everything Waits has ever recorded is her evidence. I picture her in court, a copy of Swordfishtrombones held up like a bloody knife.

In truth we have plenty in common, a pleasing amount, and under cross-examination she might even admit it. I don’t think there’s too much in the world that she really hates. But still, if one of Tom Waits’ songs pops up when we’re driving to school or the grocery store, she’ll lunge for the stereo, dial in some Noah Kahan quick, as if her life depends on it. It’s her thing, her schtick. This afternoon, for example, she just about seized up when “Clap Hands”, from the brilliant album Rain Dogs, came on. But then she chose to replace it with Fake Plastic Trees by Radiohead, which I love, and I took the substitution as proof that we’ll always be able to find common ground if we work at it hard enough.

This particular video is part of a new 2025 Italian documentary series, The Human Factor. The final episode, on homelessness and featuring Tom Waits, is titled Ultima Fermata (The Last Ride). The song here dates to the 1970s, and Waits is a fully half a century on from its conception. He leans more gravely over his piano these days, and has grown out his hair in such a way that I want nothing more than to see him twinned with Lyle Lovett on some dusty stage before I die. But he introduces the song and then sings it as tenderly as if it only came to him this morning, and he’s worried it might still break. It’s a lovely (and heartbreaking) few minutes and I’m grateful to have added that time to the bits and pieces I cart around with me like identification.

ON THE HORIZON:

I have a two-and-a-half storey brick and limestone home coming in the Inner Harbour. And a detached white stucco home just off McBurney’s shoulder. And an Amherstview side-split set back from a long curve, which means a huge pie-shaped lot and enough mature trees to start your own newspaper. I’ll have mid-century bungalows in the Aylesworth subdivision and on Days Road too. And a log home or cottage (or corporate retreat) spread over three fairytale floors on the wild northern reaches of Sydenham Lake.

There are others, and as prospects become leading lights, I’ll add to this list.

(You can, of course, reach out any time, to talk about your own house search, or your own home.)

ON WHAT PASSES FOR STAGING

I’ve been asking Susan Poffley at Design Style Kingston to stage quite a few recent listings. More are lined up. Not every house needs staging. Some are ready to go. Others just need thinning out and re-arranging, brightening up, rather like a garden after a long winter (Susan offers guidance there too), and sometimes a consultation and a to-do list are enough. But very often it’s best if she goes in and does her thing. I try to stay out of the way because Susan knows best. Most recently she helped with 38 Alwington Avenue and the house sold in two days. The difference between a professionally staged house and a DIY effort can be pretty stark. Here’s proof:

RECENTLY SOLD

MUSINGS