What do we want? (and) When do we want it?

On the news, they said we were 20,000.  Not a bad start, (Mr Abbott, given you're too busy to get to the Climate Change conference in New York later this year).  It was a beautiful day.  A sunny day and it was an honour to hear Professor Tim Flannery.

An interloper jumped on stage and grabbed the mike at the end of the speeches claiming to be a representative of Leonardo di Caprio.  It was an awkward moment.  No-one knew whether to listen or shuffle him off.  In the end he realised he'd gone further than he ever thought he would and he didn't have anything to say.  So he whooped and urged us all to walk.  It was actually very funny.  And very Australian.

The marching party was very committed (obviously) but wasn't particularly rowdy: it certainly wasn't full of the usual complement of anarchists and ferals. We were instead a sea of very composed and concerned Es for the E (Elders for the Environment), families and more anti (or were they pro) cow Vegans than I ever thought there were.

After lunch and Milo's perfunctory ice-cream (for his throat, of course) I discovered a beautiful but recently deceased native bird by the pool - which due to the recent rains has turned into a swamp.  I armed myself with tissues for the tears that always, always flow whenever I am confronted with handling dead creatures (despite my impeccable technique with plastic bags and tongs which mean I never have to touch or feel anything) and I began disposing of the corpse.

Somehow though I managed to complete the job without shedding a drop.  You see, there were triffids.  They'd taken over the garden beds around the pool. 

I don't know how and I don't know when, but there was no pretending they weren't there.  And there was no way they were staying.  

So with even greater reluctance than tackling the bird, but with slightly greater satisfaction, I slashed, pulled, ripped and tore.  Bare hands.

Did you hear that?  I. Got. Dirt. Under. My. Nails.

I have truly done my duty today.  Civic and domestic.  

Tomorrow I relaunch my business.  These are the days on which tomorrows are founded.  I hope tomorrow will be good.

Tonight I plan to sleep well.

Dirt under the finger nails.

The sun shone today, so out into the domain of the spiders and snails did we venture.

A colony of snails, discombobulated by our 

turning of their soil, decided to pack up their 

houses and leave.

Equipped with bags of soil, rescued pots, an assortment of tools, seeds, seedlings and a pair of gardening gloves for each of us we took upon us the task of making a start on our herb garden.


We planted:  mint, oregano, parsley, purple carrots (!), coriander, marigolds and chives.


After much hauling of the extremely sodden soil we'd just bought, heaving of prickly pots, hoeing, digging, root tickling and watering I felt I'd earned the right to stand back and admire the fruits of our three hours hard labour...  

...and realised that the fruits weren't visually that impressive after all.  But it's a start, and that's the main thing.


Besides, we found a hoe in the garden, and how often can you say that?

As is.

Finally.  Here is the rear garden of the House at Porter Street.  A blank canvas of sorts.  I think I need to gaze at this for a few days in the hope inspiration will come.  Wish me luck.

Foggy days.

My brain is whirling, and not only because my head had an epic run-in with the cast iron fire screen last week.  In the delicious haze of pain relieving medications, anti-inflamatories and muscle relaxants blended with my own special brand of confusion, I am mentally grappling with a number of issues which I intend to outline below in no particular order.


The fish are doing so much better but we're battling still to get our pH and other  chemical elements more deftly aligned with the colour scale at the aquarium so we can introduce a third.  To date are graced with Mr X, the stalwart, and Sunny the lemon comet, both of whom are frisky and happy and thriving.  Such good news after the extended chain of tragedy discussed in previous entries.

The garden remains in a state of flux, awaiting the next round of works. Mum recently arranged a quote from a fine fellow called Sam, about whom Mum had good vibes.  I didn't meet him, so my vibes do not come into play in this instance.  His task is to removed the dilapidated chook shed, grind out, by hand, the stumps from the trees removed a few months ago, help us plan a garden, including veggie patch, remove the rubbish and maintain the lawns on a regular and ongoing basis.

I want to develop a vision for the garden.  But am incredibly inexperienced and wholly clueless.  So until I drift off this is where I hope my attention will settle for today.


I still have one more Malm drawer unit to assemble before the furniture element of my bedroom is completed.  My foggy brain has put a halt to any interactions with flatpack.  Rather than my extensive experience giving me the confidence to proceed equipped with just one functioning brain cell, my self-preservation and mental health alert system has warned me to steer clear until  a few more synapses are firing.  By next weekend we would hope this would be the case.


There were a couple of other incidentals requiring attention this week.  Milo's first themed party last Sunday:  Toby's pirate party.  We considered an eyepatch to be an integral component of the costumery until we saw the beard.  

And finally, the man came to complete the pool fence.  Complete? you ask.  Yes, complete, I confirm.


About a month ago, the glass fence man arrived to remove our unsightly, rusty pool fence and gate and replace it with the new and improved minimal version.

He got to work quickly, cutting out the badness and with a little bit of help from moi commenced fitting the new panels.  All good.  Very happy.


And then, a curve ball: he advised he wouldn't be able to finish the job because the factory had given one of our panels to another customer, and we were one panel short.


Huh?


Many questions ensued.  Why did you start if you couldn't finish?  How long for the next panel?  What am I going to do with a party of small children due here next weekend for a party?   


It would be around 3 weeks or so before it could be complete, so after a little urging the company agreed to come back in a few days and fit a timber panel to at least make the pool area safe in the interim.

The giant piniata, the birthday boy, his wife and Milo.
Note panel just visible behind the wing of the chair next to Jane's elbow.

Eventually the pool fence was finished.

Mental note:  do something with that stupid hose.

And the timber panel was recycled into a pin board which I just have to work out how to fix to the plaster wall in the corridor outside Milo's and My bedrooms. It's bloody heavy.

So back to the garden I go, at least in my head.  First task, map it out. 

Pass the kleenex.

The House at Porter Street has been battling an outbreak of pestilence frivolously dubbed "The Common Cold".


It started, as all these things do, with Milo who brought it home with him from kinder.  Then it moved to me and has now invaded Mum.  Papou thinks he's avoided it by having two naps yesterday, but I'm not confident.


All this coughing, sneezing, wheezing and grumpiness has put a halt to advances in the progress of our home-making efforts which is particularly frustrating given our proximity to completion.


Hopefully we will all improve with the aid of these beauties.  

Grown in our garden they are perfectly formed and thanks to this cold I can't taste anything, so their reputed sourness has passed me by...

I used a cross-stitch project I undertook a decade ago as an analogy to explain my preferred approach to overhauling the garden.

In My Life - the Needlework. 

Started 2001.  Completed 2003

That is, to start with an idea, at the bottom, and work my way along, all the while conceiving, refining, linking and evolving.


The benefit of gardening over this piece, however, is that unless my poison fingers are more potent than my green thumbs, the garden is dynamic in its own right and therefore presents an ongoing challenge and delight.


My conversation was with Mum.  She is of a different school.  In her eyes, the plan and destination must be set in stone before we begin.  This should really be of no surprise:  she is not a person who flies happily by the seat of her pants.


It will be interesting to see how we move forward.  I'm anticipating a need to research and do diagrams.  


I'll begin by googling Australian Natives and a passionfruit vine for the side fence...

Nuthin'

The People didn't ring, so the stone isn't in.  The flow on of the no show by "Architectural Stone" means our hopes of a functioning kitchen by end of day Monday is now a pipe dream.


To quote my dear, departed, aged aunt, in response, "Poo.  Bum.  Bugger.  Blast."


Mum and I ventured into the backyard early this arvie as the realisation dawned and summarily took out our disappointment on the wasp riddled lemon tree, which hadn't been pruned back hard enough on Thursday. 

Captured incidentally in a photo of my cat Bongo's posterior a few months ago, you can see the tree in all its leafy glory.  It's the bush behind that concrete pillar-thing at the top, centre of this frame.

When the tree people left on Thursday it was reduced to a very mini version of itself.

And today, with all the lumps cut out, we have shrunk him thusly

Sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind.  Life's like that.  I'll feed it some Seasol and citrus food tomorrow and keep fingers crossed for a healthier tomorrow.

All it took was just one day.

With one figurative yet masterful stroke of the chainsaw, the last vestige of gloom from the previous inhabitants was purged from the House at Porter Street.  

Hip hip hooray.  Hip hip hooray.  You get the message.  

Props to the fellas from Out on a Limb (0419 882 740).  They were ace.

The only personages bemoaning the great expunging are relatively small and therefore voiceless:  the  league of snails inhabiting walls formerly clad in ivy blankets,

the flock of oversized mosquitoes displaced from the bay tree,  the hapless praying mantis who'd been minding his own business in a miscellaneous sap-leaking fruit tree,

and Poppy and Bongo who went to sleep inside when the heavy machinery started and woke five hours later to find the landscape somewhat altered:  


from this

to this

It's actually hard to conceive of just how oppressive all those conifers and the baytrees were, not to mention the oversized and unruly, overplanted everything else.  But now, actually from the instant that bank of conifers was gone, the garden has been opened up to a whole world of light and prettiness and movement and functionality.


It is up to us now to do what it takes to make that happen, one garden bed at a time...

Anticipating extention

The tree people are cleft in twain, their camp ravaged by pestilence.  We are rescheduled now for Thursday.


(But it's still Debs' birthday...)

Lots of things.

Tomorrow is 17 May, a greatly anticipated and important day.  Not only is it Debski's 50th (happy happy happy, dear Debsk) but it is also when we will welcome the second coming of Greg Tree, this time with companions two.  Armed with sharp wits and sharper implements the three will be transforming our choking environs into something unrecognisable.  A place with air and light.  A place with far fewer cyprus trees.  In short, they will be uncluttering our outdoors.  And this is good.


I meant to wander about today to photograph those doomed plants for posterity, however there were no spare moments in which to undertake the task.  


You see, we were buoyed by our stellar success in the fireplace stakes yesterday, so we purchased a $40 fire grate from an eBay "Buy it Now" seller in Croydon for our mini fireplace in the kitchen, and had to pop over and pick it up.  (Croydon has ENORMOUS, suburban blocks, don't you know.)


We visited Bunnings in Eltham in search of reasonably priced fireplace accessories for the kitchen hearth and I feel it is only right to warn anyone who may be tempted to go there, and let their child play on the enormous climbing frame thingumy (Milo got stuck at the top - of course he did) while they enjoy a coffee and a scroll.  DON'T DO IT.  The muck in a cup was to coffee what Charlie Sheen is to sensitivity and restraint.  And the bun.  Well, there are no words.


Fuelled by outrage and disappointment about our morning tea, and in readiness for the chaps tomorrow and their heavy machinery and their requirement to access our nether regions, Mum and I then conceived to create a pathway from the front of the somewhat overcrowded garage to the back.  This required a great deal of shuffling, dragging, piling, folding, cutting, shredding, discarding and reorganising.  Luckily Mum has a PhD in this arena and I did a short course at the CAE in the late '80s.


We collected the tiles and slate for the kitchen, whenever the hell that decides to be finished.


And at some stage too there was grocery shopping.


Oh, and I ordered the kitchen stools from Matt Blatt online.


It's all happening at the House at Porter Street.


PS  I would've squeezed in a haircut but the salon is closed for renovations.  Probably not a bad thing.  By the time the chainsawing and mulch-fest is over tomorrow, I'll be gagging for some time out and R&R on Wednesday.  Fingers crossed for that.

On Mother's Day we went for lunch at Min's and lo! on the way to the bathroom, I experienced an epiphany of biblical proportions.

I've puzzled and pondered about how to make my bedroom work, and now I have the solution by wholly and completely pilfering the look from Min's own boudoir.


In case you can't see from my elevation, there will be four Ikea Billy bookcases behind my bed.  The facing wall will be pictures.  On the left is the wardrobe and floating shelves. And on the right is the window overlooking the soon to be culled yetis.

We've secured the services of "Out on a Limb" to free us of the tyranny of the strangling garden.  They'll be here on 17 May, for a full day, to do their worst.


It has been flagged with us, by the five parties we had through to quote on the garden, that we're going to have a dickens of a time getting rid of the yukkas lining the pool.

Apparently there's not enough room to get the stump grinder down the gap between pool and boundary fence, so we're preparing for a long running war using poison.  Not even pouring concrete on the stumps would stop their vigorous growth, as I'm told they'll just bust through.  It's crackers.  What fool would put aggressive, unstoppable, prickly weeds along a narrow path beside a pool?


The conundrums keep rolling at the House at Porter Street.

Walter Garden has been

Today has been enormously eventful in and around the House at Porter Street.  Or maybe I'm just a nervous wreck.  God knows.


There has been, amongst other things, an early morning outing to the dental hospital, real fear of the loss of the boy Bongo, who hadn't been sighted for over 36 hours, the unexpected and extremely painful meeting of Milo's hip with the concrete driveway, and the excitement of a dear friend buying a long longed for and very much deserved first home.  And as the day ends, I am sat contemplating the gardens and what our vision for their resurrection might look like.  And after that, how it may be manifest.  


Walter Garden came today for the first time, and has been retained to curb our unruly growth, halt the disease and decay and finesse our vision into some sort of reality.  And then turn his hand to the garden - boom boom.


Our relationship was a little shaky at first.


Walter:  I love the pines and conifers.
Me:  D'you want them?


And I was seriously doubting if we could ever be on the same page.  But then I asked him what he thought about the bay tree (my feelings about which can be found here:  Chainsaw Anyone?) and his rapid fire "take the whole damn thing out" won me over straight away.  I know now there will be parry and thrust, but we can and will make our way to compromise.  So all is well.


Oh, except our lemon trees which are apparently diseased (gall wasp infestation) and require rather immediate and extreme pruning to save. 

You don't want this.
Image from gardenworld.net.au

I look forward to his next visit, next week, with tools.  And in the meantime I need to conjure up the grand vision.  Bliss.

One down. Eight to go.

I suspect the dangers of biggest hill were almost visited upon Bongo this morning.  I don't even want to imagine how close this morning's attempt to cross Porter Street was to being his last.  But this afternoon, after an introduction to the local vet, as he sat again amongst the feral green licking clean his injured paw, I shed a little tear and thanked the heavens that my Biggest has survived this closest of close calls.

Hundreds of years ago I worked on the front desk at the Council of Adult Education:  an organisation renowned for its eclectic and eccentric mix of clientele.  It was impossible at the time not to note the link between  the occurrence of full moons and the most outlandish behaviour and extreme swings of mood amongst the student populace.  


Prompted by this recollection, I can't help but ponder if tonight's monumental full moon had anything to do with Bongo's death defying dash.

***

Milo and I decided to take advantage of the sunny day (and an opportunity to stealthily observe the injured) and tackled the lawn.


It's such a thankless task as far as results are concerned.  Although as far as progress is concerned it's terrifically gratifying.  

Our crop of weeds is impressive.

The dirt patch previously inhabited by the weeds is
significantly less to speak about

Today we harvest weeds.
Tomorrow (figuratively) we'll aim for something edible.

Dad recently claimed to've been born with nine green fingers, accompanied by one finger of death.  


I was born without a horticultural clue, although I am eager to muck in - provided there are gloves and tools and people to fan and bring me drinks.  I therefore have no idea about what to do with the  enormous patches of dirt I'm exposing by ripping out the weeds, but someone will surely share some hints.


Surely.

Packing Avoidance Strategy #22

Mum camping in the house has given me the BEST excuse in the world to leave the catastrophe of a bomb site that is Riverside first thing in the morning and not coming back until evening when activities need to revolve around getting Milo fed, bathed, read-to and soundly tucked in.  The net result in terms of packing means that since settlement precisely NO packing has occurred.


Tomorrow is Monday.  I'm going to need to think quickly and come up with another strategy for avoidance.  I don't think I can get away with a fourth day sitting with Mum in the empty kitchen, strategising, planning and acclimatising while Milo zips around on his bike.


We did actually venture into the backyard today too - during one of those moments of blinding, glorious sunshine - on a mission of discovery with a couple of Dad's friends, Andrew and Ang.  They know about plants and were able to put names to some of the lovely trees (as opposed to the abundant evergreens):

• two cherry trees (which may or may not bare fruit)
• the most enormous bay leaf tree in the whole world (which, if it doesn't stop crowding the patio/porch/verandah, is going to find itself sacrificed to the god of space and airiness)
• two orange trees vigorously fruiting (we thought they were limes)
• two lemon trees, also heavily laden with the most glorious smelling fruit
• a walnut (tree - as opposed to one nut)

They also explained 

• why two of the bins in the yard had taps (for the uninitiated, it's to transfer water from the tank to the garden)
• why the pool was overflowing (the overflow thingy was blocked)
• where the (at the moment, barren) veggie patches are

and any number of other bits and pieces.  It was a good fun visit and nice to be out in the garden amongst the concrete statues and agave plants.  I even noticed for the first time, the face of King Tut, in relief, staring at us from across the pool.

Tomorrow it's all going to start happening at the House at Porter Street: if it's sunny I'll photograph while the painters start...