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.

Coveting #1: 2-D, Black and White

Artist:  Marina Strocchi - Black Roads

Artist:  Piero Fornasetti - Jerusalem wallpaper

Egyptian Garden

Senufo Artwork

If only I knew then what I know now...

Our plan for floating floor panels over the interruptions in the kitchen tiles were dashed completely on Friday at 10am when David Charming, the delightful morphing of Ang Christou and Anthony Koutoufides, came to measure.

Where the fridge goes.

Please note that the blue is the protective film

Where the long counter was made into an island.

I told him of our cunning scheme to fill these chasms with an element already existing in the kitchen environ:  brushbox timber.

Handsome did everything he could to talk us out of it eventually hitting on the thing which cut through our resistance.  

If the timber panels get soaked, if there's a leak, they will be ruined, bubbly, straight away.  And where are the areas for which these panels are proposed?  Under the dishwasher and under the fridge.

Cue the loser sound from "Family Feud".

He then went on to point out that the floor underneath the tiles is HARDWOOD.  Blackbutt.  AND what's more, the whole business to rip up the tiles, remove adhesive and sand and seal the floors would cost under $3K.

Can you hear my heart breaking?

Now the cabinetry is in, it's too late to rip up the tiles and polish the boards, isn't it?  If it was just me, I'd bite the bullet and get on with it.  But Mum's already a nervous wreck and I don't think she could go to that place and retain the semblance of sanity to which she is currently clinging.

The price will be living with the tiles  and patch job knowing that underneath there is gold Gold GOLD.

And if in the future, I do decide to lose the tiles, I'll have to factor into the costing a long, relaxing trip to Greece for Mama, so she's no where near the mayhem.

I don't remember walking though a giant mouth, and lining up for tickets, but somehow I find myself continuing on the rollercoaster ride that is the House at Porter Street.

The red card from the gas inspector.

When last I wrote our position was a little grim as we passed a chilly night and anxiously awaited the prognosis from the plumber about the state of our pipes.  

This is the bit of rag holding together our broken pipe

Gladly another person's misfortune became our boon when a stranger's granite benchtops didn't arrive.  So instead of having to wait for Nick Plumber until after midday, he arrived around 10, bright and feisty and ready to get stuck in.


Within half an hour the broken pipe was out and I was despatched to a plumbing supply place, to get a bit of pipe to replace that which is depicted above.  


Now, I've been to Reece recently.  Bought a kitchen sink, if you recall.  Wasn't in any way struck by the place being particularly, um, manly.  So I didn't think twice about heading off to Tradelink while Nick Plumber had a cuppa with Mum and Milo.  I drive past it a couple of times a week.  It looks quite normal from the street: a bathroom showroom shopfront.  But once inside there's an eerie silence.  And no people.  Nothing happening. 


I looked about and was drawn to a sign with an arrow saying "Trade to rear".


Down a long corridor and through the looking glass, I found myself in what was physically a warehouse, but so generously infused with the essence of bloke and the aura of tradie, that without my realising or noticing, I had become invisible and irrelevant.  


Khe Sanh filtered through the air.


Behind the counter there was a young man, talking to a telephone about packing nuts and leak detection systems.  His name tag said Mark.  Beside him was a doorway with another sign barring civilians from crossing the threshold.  Men passed through the doorway, carrying things and tools and talking to unseen others.  I wondered why they couldn't see me.  


I'd been sent to ask for Mark. 


Daring not approach to doorway I instead embraced my inner Brit and waited patiently at the desk while Mark finished up his phone call and was about to start another when I must've magically materialised before him.


I asked if he was Mark with the 250mm pipe.  He stared.  My plumber, Nick rang before.  He told me to ask for Mark.  Mark said, Oh.  Mark.  There's more than one.  He leaned over to the mystical doorway, pushed it open and called.  An indeterminate number of voices responded.  Who knows about the 250 mil threaded gal?  Sounds like you do, I thought.  Although I wasn't eager to interrupt this curious charade.


After a few moments, another Mark emerged with the pipe. I reached out to take it.  Mark handed it to Mark.  My arm was still extended.  Mark placed it on the counter 5mm from my hand. 


I paid, claimed my purchase, and turned back towards the corridor leading up to the showroom, half expecting it to've morphed into a wall or a forest or a wardrobe or something. The thought occurred that I might be trapped there for ever.


By the time I got home, anticipation of a warm shower overwrote any musings about the mysterious place where men called Mark did manly things with bits of stuff.  I lived in hope that no more corrosive failures would be present and identified in my home.


Gladly this was the case.

Nick Plumber's youngest and happiest apprentice, filling in the hole.

And now the gas leak's fixed, for some reason, the hot water is undeniably hotter.  How can that be?

This post was supposed to be about sawdust.

We had three lots of garden people come through today.  In between visits, I battled the tsunami of sawdust in the kitchen with broom and vac and muslin duster.  One man came to quote on the lawn, the other two to estimate the cost and time needed to get rid of the jungle in the front and rear yards and get the garden into some sort of manageable shape.  

Every fella commented immediately as I opened the front door, on the strong smell of gas.  And as we each walked around the west side of the house it became increasingly apparent that there was something awry.  That's where the gas meter is, and that's where it was extremely whiffy.

So I rang the plumber who'd attended to unplug the gas when the kitchen was being dismantled.  He told me to call the gas company and advise them of a leak at the meter.  Make sure you say it's at the meter, he said.  It'll be a leaking regulator.

So I phoned.  I told them what he said.  I then did as they instructed and turned off the gas at the meter, and then I continued sweeping while I waited for the emergency gas man to come.

It wasn't too long before he too was tapping at the door, and he too commented on the smell.  Normally though, he can't smell it because he's around it all the time.  Not a good sign he said.  So I took him to the meter and he got a bottle of soapy water and sprayed it about the place and sure enough the regulator was stuffed.  Not your expense, he said.  Hooray, I responded.  Everything we touch here has cost us money.  This is a small victory.

So he changed the regulator, turned the supply back on and asked me to take him to the gas heating and hot water service so he could relight the pilots.

Not happy with the water heater and its proximity to trees (bad news).  Happy with ducted heating unit - an oldie but a goodie.  

Ready to say goodbye.  Walking past the gas meter again and we stop.  Can you still smell gas?  Yes, I believe I can.  Hmm.  This is not good.

And whaddya know.  The pipe that goes from the meter to our house, that is the pipe that we are financially responsible for, is not actually attached in any meaningful way to the house.  It was sort of held in place by some sort of a rag, but was wholly and completely corroded through.

The corrosion, said the gas man, is what happens over time.  But this "repair" is unbelievable.  Criminal.  Bloody dangerous.  The previous owners have attempted a temporary fix and then just left it.  You should try and go them for some of the costs.  (Yeah, coz that will really happen.)

So he shut off the gas (we have now no hot water or heating as well as a BEAUTIFUL but not functioning kitchen) and the plumber will have to come tomorrow to replace the pipe and find out what's going on with it.

So much for the small victory.  At least we got a new regulator.  AND our house didn't blow up.  That's something, I guess.

Looking good, Mortimer.

Look what Ben did today. 

Of course the blue film is still on, the bulkheads need painting, not to mention cornices and tiles, the benchtops are still 11 - 15 working days off and the plumbing and appliances aren't connected...oh, and the oven has a dent in it.  Pardon?  The oven has a dent in it?  Well actually, the oven has two dents.  Symmetrical.  Unmissable.  Look.

When I phoned Harvey Norman to advise them, I was told that we should've told them within 3 days of delivery...HA!  That's not working for me.  Anyway, they promised to ring me back with a solution by the end of the day.  Sadly they didn't.  So tomorrow I'll be following up.  


This will be fun.

The Beige Cloud: A distant memory.

We're part-way through the installation.  And although a van-load of tan-tinted detritus still litters the driveway, the nightmare fades with each passing moment.

Ben, 23, tattoos, facial piercing, newly married, hard worker, single-handedly undertook today's transformation.The cabinets are all in.  

The blue is a protective film.  It's not staying.

Tomorrow it will be bulk heads, kickboards, drawers and the template for the benchtops.

And then, in the coming weeks, just so it isn't all over too quickly, there will be installation of the benchtops, final fit of appliances, cornices, painting, tiles and the floating floors where there aren't any tiles.

We also had Shane Lopper from the Grey Army come to assess the garden.  Like a dream he gave me a pricing for all the individual trees we want taken out so if we can't scrape together the full amount, we'll be able to pick and choose our priorities.

It's all good, today.  Good good good good good.