Roseneath
Day 170, if you're counting.
Today was another disappointment.
Offers were taken on a house my wife and I had spied two weeks back in the city's other Little Italy neighourhood, on a short street just north of St. Clair West on the well-known strip between Bathurst and Dufferin. It's a desirable area of town, but not insanely priced—yet.
We like that neighbourhood. I spent a couple of years there after finishing university. A few of our friends live in the area. It's on a streetcar line that runs past two subway stations. Our commute to work would clock in at around 35 minutes. I could walk 15 minutes to one of the city's best espresso bars. It's very old school—soccer and Campari on Sunday afternoons.
The listing agent restricted offers until 5 p.m. this afternoon, meaning the property was held for 14 or so days. That's two weekends worth of open houses—almost unheard of in this city where pieces of shit houses are snapped up in 48 hours. That agent was one smart lady. The house was a detached bungalow, two bedrooms, which she passed off for three due to the finished basement, but a huge back yard and a driveway. The asking price was $343K—the most expensive on a street of two-storey semi-detached houses. It had a sauna in the basement. Small galley kitchen. But a workable situation all around.
We liked it. Heck, we loved it. I dreamt of building a half-second floor with three bedrooms and a bathroom, adding double french doors off the back to a deck or patio, and expanding the kitchen to include a small eat-in area.
But we can only afford a certain purchase price without digging ourselves into a quicksand pool of debt. We knew the property was going to draw attention, but we didn't know by how much. We considered sabotaging the situation, sending over some teens during the open houses to loiter at the driveway. We haven't crossed that line in the sand just yet. But I can now see how far up the beach it's been drawn.
Shortly after lunch, our agent, my brother-in-law whose had his licence for two years, found out there were 13 offers registered on the property before the deadline. He wanted confirmation on how much we were willing to spend. We told him. It was less than what another agent in his office had put in for their client.
We threw our hands up and skipped this one. My wife's mood turned sour.
At least the weather was nice today. Some sun and a bit of warmth. Maybe we'll have a decent summer this year.
Today was another disappointment.
Offers were taken on a house my wife and I had spied two weeks back in the city's other Little Italy neighourhood, on a short street just north of St. Clair West on the well-known strip between Bathurst and Dufferin. It's a desirable area of town, but not insanely priced—yet.
We like that neighbourhood. I spent a couple of years there after finishing university. A few of our friends live in the area. It's on a streetcar line that runs past two subway stations. Our commute to work would clock in at around 35 minutes. I could walk 15 minutes to one of the city's best espresso bars. It's very old school—soccer and Campari on Sunday afternoons.
The listing agent restricted offers until 5 p.m. this afternoon, meaning the property was held for 14 or so days. That's two weekends worth of open houses—almost unheard of in this city where pieces of shit houses are snapped up in 48 hours. That agent was one smart lady. The house was a detached bungalow, two bedrooms, which she passed off for three due to the finished basement, but a huge back yard and a driveway. The asking price was $343K—the most expensive on a street of two-storey semi-detached houses. It had a sauna in the basement. Small galley kitchen. But a workable situation all around.
We liked it. Heck, we loved it. I dreamt of building a half-second floor with three bedrooms and a bathroom, adding double french doors off the back to a deck or patio, and expanding the kitchen to include a small eat-in area.
But we can only afford a certain purchase price without digging ourselves into a quicksand pool of debt. We knew the property was going to draw attention, but we didn't know by how much. We considered sabotaging the situation, sending over some teens during the open houses to loiter at the driveway. We haven't crossed that line in the sand just yet. But I can now see how far up the beach it's been drawn.
Shortly after lunch, our agent, my brother-in-law whose had his licence for two years, found out there were 13 offers registered on the property before the deadline. He wanted confirmation on how much we were willing to spend. We told him. It was less than what another agent in his office had put in for their client.
We threw our hands up and skipped this one. My wife's mood turned sour.
At least the weather was nice today. Some sun and a bit of warmth. Maybe we'll have a decent summer this year.
posted by Renovator-in-training at 12:16 AM
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