Someone posted online recently about inheriting their father’s house. The house is mostly fine. There’s one room that isn’t. The father had enclosed the carport years ago and turned it into his smoking room. Two to three packs a day for over forty years. The photos looked exactly like what you’d expect, which is to say, like the inside of an old pub that was never cleaned and then sealed shut for a decade.

I stumbled across a discussion recently about Airport West—that oddly-named suburb wedged between three major freeways—and found myself genuinely intrigued. Not because I’m considering a move there, but because the conversation really challenged some assumptions I had about what makes a suburb liveable. The more I read, the more it struck me that Airport West represents something worth examining: a place that’s geographically isolated in a way that might actually be its greatest strength.

Reading through property discussions online lately has sparked some thoughts about the peculiar relationship we have with home ownership in this country. The recurring theme of “property regret” keeps surfacing, particularly from first-time buyers questioning their decisions.

One discussion caught my eye - a young professional wrestling with doubt after purchasing an apartment in a desirable suburb. Despite ticking all the right boxes - great location, manageable mortgage, lifestyle fit - they’re haunted by the nagging feeling that they should have stretched for a house or townhouse instead.