SOLD. I list houses all over and I’m happy to do it. I visit perfectly lovely properties in spots I just couldn’t see myself living in. I don’t see the harm in admitting that; it doesn’t mean I won’t do a bang-up job of selling your pale blue elevated bungalow on its deeded corner of a farmer’s flat field.
SOLD. I looked west, over the white-on-white winter expanses of Dog Lake, a scant twenty minutes north of Kingston. This was just a few days ago. Cheri and I were out at this ridiculously lovely property to check on the final listing preparations.
And so another rock has been thrown though another window (actually the door, this time) of the lovely and important Elm Cafe at the corner of Charles St and Montreal St, north of McBurney Park and east of the fruit belt. What is that, three now?
February, but not the usual sort of February. There is grass visible in the yard. In fact there’s probably more of that sad-sack yellow thatch out there than there is snow this morning. The world, at least this part of it, is holding its breath...
I remember a few years back seeing a video of Will Smith trying a penalty kick on a soccer field. He’s a charming and coordinated guy, but that’s as awful a kick as I’ve ever seen. Here’s the video evidence.
SOLD! 48 Florence St was built in 1963. I’ve seen the plans for the house - hand-drawn on yellowing vellum. The detail is marvelous, and so is the penmanship. I can see them from where I write this, and my thought is that if you buy this house you’re going to have to beg for those...
I ran into a friend and sometime client on Princess St. “You look spectacularly un-real-estate-y,” she told me. She was beaming. I had just ducked out of the office to buy a sandwich. I hadn’t thought much about what I was wearing. I had no meetings that day.
I headed to the gym. It was that or venture deeper into the newspaper, rank this morning with Trump’s loathsome assertions that Mexico will repay the U.S. for the wall he’s going to build. Every day it’s another obscenity, or another lie, some fourth-rate misdirection.
I was at the gym late yesterday afternoon, trying to fend off a little of time’s ambush, as well as anxiety’s intermittent madness, and a heart that a lot of the time won’t beat in quite the regular way it should.
Sold. So. Howe Island. Including the ferry ride you’re, what, maybe twenty minutes from downtown Kingston? It’s something like that, give or take a minute, depending on the traffic and the headwinds. And what a drive that is.