See, to my mind, the above isn’t a vacant one-bedroom apartment at all, whatever the listing says, even if that copy does caution that “improvements” might be needed. That, my friend, is just a really wet cinder block basement with some pretty ominous dangling electrical. The sort of room Keanu Reeves fights his way out of during a career slump. 

There are burn marks about head-height on the inside of the grey shower curtain of this shabby Toronto hotel. Someone smoked in here is my guess, and the water pressure is low - more a damp, warm drizzle than the righteous downpour I was looking for after my late night and early morning.

The fierce wind this week in Kingston brought down far more fences than it did trees. I sleep high in the house, right under the rafters, and was intermittently alarmed. While I sought more sleep, huddled under cold sheets, the force of that wind arrived in my mind’s eye as a series of pale grey shadows crowding me into a corner of the bed. It was a jostling rather than a face.

I was in New York City recently. Cheri was minding the shop. I feel guilty leaving work behind (stupid of me, I know), but Cheri had her own excursion south a few weeks further back, and even completed a deal from the Grand Canyon, her phone held high in the air like some lighter at a rock concert. It was my turn, I told myself. A chance to actually talk to the kids, to notice all the ways in which they’ve grown.

The spring is usually our busiest season, but not this year. Things started more slowly than normal and I wondered if we’d ever recover to our normal level. I fretted, in fact. And paced. But the last six weeks have been the busiest of our year, and there is no sign of things slowing down. We have three new listings coming this week.

There will come a day when I don’t make the walk up to the Sunday Market at the Memorial Centre. It’s inevitable. The knees will give out, or the mind. Conceivably we move into another neighbourhood (once the kids have left home), or out beside a quietly muscular river north of the city. All good things come to an end, you realise.

There is no website for Wok-In, a tiny Asian restaurant on the west side of Montreal St, between Princess and Queen, and I’m okay with that. Because if you set up some snazzy one-pager on Squarespace, load the bottom with honest reviews, I’d likely never get in there again. The line-ups would begin at dawn.

A couple of months back, a $500,000 Kingston house sold for more than $175,000 over the asking price. So I think it’s fair to say that it’s a bit mad out there. I don’t know what to make of sales like that. It’s become really hard, damn near impossible, to predict the sale price of houses once there are competing offers registered. I mean, how do you put a dollar figure on desperation?

As far as I can figure it, Lem pulled off Sunbury Rd sometime in the spring of 1980. He was built differently then, an inch and a half taller for starters, and his thick white shirt had the sleeves rolled up past the elbows. A pair of worn olive suspenders. Arms you’d be proud of.

I’ve been listening a lot this week to the debut album by London band black midi. Schlagenheimis the title. It’s a compelling, brilliant, but often unpleasant sort of listen. That four people found each other at school and decided it would be a blast to make this sort of noise together is in itself rather remarkable.

I’m speechless, more or less. And I don’t really want to add many of my own words. It’s enough to say that when Cheri and I pulled open the envelope left in our office mailbox and found the above drawing inside, it made everything that went before it last week, both good and bad, just sort of fade away, like a fog burning off a brilliant blue sea…

I was asked tonight what rodent I thought might be eating the front corner of the garage at a property I have listed for sale. I am sitting in the garden, minding my own business and ignoring that bit of work. With headphones. My son in the kitchen behind me with his math tutor. My daughter at the lake for a play rehearsal. The poppies bobbing out front.

At first the house was empty without him and then, when I learned to accept the quiet spaces and even to revel in them, it was just expensive. He moved into an apartment close to the university campus, a two-bedroom garret at the top of a limestone rowhouse down by City Park, with cracked plaster walls and floors that dove sharply down into the corners.

Willa returned last week from an overnight trip to the RKY camp up on Eagle Lake near Parham. The school bus pulled up in front of Central Public about six o’clock, and the kids stumbled down the steps and gathered mostly mute at the back door to collect their sleeping bags and backpacks, their extra blankets and I’m pretty sure I saw a ukulele too. 

As far as I can tell, it all began with a chance meeting in the park. A big brick house on the corner of Alma and Patrick was being prepared for sale. Word had it the seller was moving into a top-floor, top-notch lemony condominium set among the baleful willows of Sydenham ward and, well, if that was the future he’d lined up (with our help) who could blame him?

He would come up to bed late, smelling of oranges, the street gone quiet. It wasn’t every night - sometimes the stink was just whisky - but it was often enough. I could feel him downstairs, if that makes any sense, leaned up against the kitchen counter, digging his blunt thumbs into Valencia navels …

My daughter, Willa, was dragging herself around the house a bit this morning. Her stomach hurt, she said, and she was listless. Wrapping the cat up in a blanket and gleefully stifling its every attempt for freedom was about all she could manage. I suspect there are a lot of tired kids at her school – Central Public – right now. Their production of Mary Poppins runs next week, on the 16th and 17th, and rehearsals are the order of the day.

The house is empty and so I should be picking away at the new novel. Grabbing every free minute. I’ve stepped back recently from a few obligations in the hope of carving out a little space. And I’ve made a mildly decent start. For the first time in years it feels as if there’s no stall imminent, no fall from the sky. I hope to have a draft by the end of the year.

Pete Shelley of Buzzcocks fame died last December. He was 63 and had a heart attack. I wandered about in a bit of a daze that morning and then … well you have to get on with things, don’t you? I ordered a t-shirt from their website, a sad, middle-aged nod on my part to his influence, and once it arrived it became more or less instantly a favourite part of my wardrobe (which I realise pegs me as a man of a certain age and disposition, and so be it).