Sherwood Forest Without the Trees
For the record, the national WINTER sport of Canada may be hockey, but the national SPRING sport is without question looking at model homes.
“I don’t know why we keep looking at these, “grumbles my husband as we stomp up the steps to ‘The Nottingham.’ “We can’t afford the house we’ve got.”
“Nuts,” I say. “Think of all the neat decorating ideas we can get.”
This generates about as much enthusiasm as a mass accident on the Don Valley Parkway.
I grab the swoopy brass handle and shove in the door. The vestibule is already occupied, specifically with two tub chairs and a four-foot brass giraffe. Its exact purpose escapes me. Maybe this is the ‘African Safari’ model?
“What do you think of the decorating?” I grab a glossy sales brochure from the back of the giraffe.
He shrugs. “Brown and beige is nice.”
“That’s not brown and beige.” I read from the spec sheet. “That’s ‘Maple syrup, Cognac, and Mink.”
We face miles of mirrors and a pair of French doors every twelve or so feet. I catch a sideways glance of myself and see four of me, all overweight. We grimace at each other.
The kitchen is directly down the hall. It’s ‘European Modern’ which as far as I can see, means white. Everything’s white. White cupboards, white walls, white ceramic floors. You need sunglasses here just to peel a grape.
We troop up the regulation circular staircase to the masses of bedrooms and bathrooms above.
The master bedroom is approximately the size of the Skydome. “Look at the size of this bathroom,” says my husband.
I peek around the connecting door. Two sinks, whirlpool tub, separate shower, designer toilet and approximately 22,000 white tiles. I see Comet and Windex in my future. Mr. Clean, a constant companion.
“Have you noticed,” hisses my husband, “that there’s nothing but plants in this house?”
I agree. It’s eerie. No kitchen table, no furniture, no pictures, but a plant in every bedroom. A palm in the foyer and an aspidistra in the family room. They look smug. I am reminded of Triffids.
We make our way cautiously downstairs.
I pick up a price list on the way out and browse through it in the car. “It can be ours for a minor addition of $400,000 to our mortgage.”
The engine cranks over and we pull out onto ‘Sherwood Forest Boulevard.’ Not a tree in sight.
“Wait a minute!” I exclaim. “Over there by that big sign – look at that cute little house with the Cape Cod roof.”
“That’s the sales trailer.” My husband looks askance. But I am made of sterner stuff.
“Stop the car. We might just be able to afford it.”