March 2012


the garage

We just bought a property. It’s the cinder-block garage pictured above, along with the lot it sits on. And I have little doubt that most of you glanced up and decided instantly that it’s one of the least inspiring bits of real estate you’ve seen, this year or any other, and that whatever I paid, it’s too much and I should have my head examined. And I hear you. But let me explain.




I had lunch today with a colleague who rarely gets downtown. I’d suggested the Wellington, but waiting outside for her to find parking (you have to live down here to know how to do that in a timely fashion) I remembered that Red House had opened on King, and I was anxious to try it. So we walked the extra block and into a space that’s been transformed mightily since its last incarnation as a dry cleaner’s.



mark sinnett

There’s a good chance this is your first time on the site. It’s been in the works for several months, and intermittently alive and breathing on its own for maybe a dozen days. But it’s only the last week or so that I’ve started nudging it gently out into the world—the odd email here, a casual mention of it at the office, and finally a couple of small advertisements in the newspaper. However you got here, I’m glad you’ve come.


building inspector

I bought the house I now live in a couple of years before I decided to get into real estate. My partner and I had driven down from Toronto one weekend and looked at a couple of uninspiring places. But at the end of the visit our realtor handed us a fresh listing, and so we took a drive by. A crew was attaching fresh eavestroughs to a handsome brick and limestone semi, and the seller was good enough to invite us in.



Here we go. I'm going to put aside regular time again to write. There I've said it, and the reasons are many. First of all, it's been almost two years since my last novel was published, and in that time I've written an awful lot of emails and not much else. My life has been turned on its head. I’ve gone from being a midlist writer (here's a link to that world) to being a middle-aged real estate agent.



Is it just me, or is Pepe Reina looking younger these days?

I ran into Liverpool’s Spanish goalkeeper at a Barcelona restaurant recently, just a few hours after his revitalized side had seen off Bolton 3-1. He was dressed casually but smartly in some very expensive denim and a pair of brown leather loafers that must have set him back a good couple of weeks’ salary. My salary, that is. Mr Reina makes at least 75,000 pounds each week of the English football season for throwing himself around on the turf.



1337 Waverley Cres

This house sold today!

1337 Waverley Crescent is a nicely updated sidesplit in Kingston's west end. The full listing is here and that's where you'll want to go for tax information and room dimensions, all the nitty gritty. The price, though, I should tell you immediately: it's $224,900. I've written about Bella Bistro elsewhere on this site. It's one of my favourite restaurants in Kingston and it's just down the road...


The Descendants

The Descendants

A few weeks ago my partner and I, on a Sunday afternoon, walked downtown to see The Descendants, George Clooney's latest film. What's remarkable about that fact is that this was our first movie date in years. You see, we have young kids of three and eight, and one of the symptoms of parenthood is that movies on the big screen aren't much different from public drunkenness and afternoon sex ...



yoga crow pose

When I arrived at the Wally Cook Arena one early Tuesday morning in November, Jerry Bolton was at the door waiting for me. He half-scuffed half-skated out into the snow, wheeled and, while never letting the door go, he seemed, I swear, to be attempting a curtsey. “Apres-vous,” he grinned, his face a thick mass of stubble and gristly tendons, and at least half a set of teeth. He had old blue Roots sweats on, double baggy, and a John Deere T-shirt, some beat-up Tiger sneakers green enough that you could argue he was trying to coordinate. A tattoo of the sun on the inside of his right forearm, the blue rays smudged, from age maybe, or the constant clinching.