The Light Fangtastic

Ah... Halloween. The traditional time when annoying kids are allowed to virtually lynch you, and all you can do is smile sweetly and hand them sweeties. Except it’s not – Halloween is no part of the Australian tradition (or the British one either) but that doesn’t stop zombie walks in Brisbane and Sydney (I’m not kidding: there are that many zombies staggering along the pavement you could have thrown a frying pan in any direction and hit six) before the ghoulishness has peaked with Halloween.

And living in what is being described as “that old spooky haunted house on the hill” not surprisingly; trick-or-mugging sweet-grabbers have come-a-knocking at the door. Never mind that the lawn is freshly mown and even the outside lights work, from the way they approach it, you’d think it was a cross between the Adam’s family and Fangtasia.

However, telling them that Halloween is simply an American commercial sales technique went down like a lead blanket.

And even the local post office in the small little hamlet down the road has everything a well-dressed ghoul would need, including varieties of plastic teeth, 50 types of alternate witches' hats, 30 different types of weapons and a range of tombstones. When I nipped down for a haircut and walked past I did however find – and was thankful for - that they have sold out of fake blood and cobwebs.

Not that I need any – the place is alive with real cobwebs. Hundreds of ‘em, and some real nasty spiders too: I got zapped by a golden orb spider when I spent the afternoon stripping back positively Amazonian thick vines over the front flower bed to allow my giant Leyland Cypress trees room to grow.

My hand is now throbbing, and looks scary enough to put any kid off his fake fangs.

Drainspotting

I’ve spent my day with my arm up my U-bend, which – trust me - isn’t a euphemism.

It does however get interesting looks from the neighbours, and is of crucial importance when washing up, if you don’t want a fountain of water between 2 and 6 inches high (depending on how many beers you’ve had when telling the story) from shooting up the other sink, and spraying you with d’merde.

Which is all the stranger, considering the bleeding thing isn’t blocked. It’s had gallons of drain cleaner, and half a mile of wire pipe cleaner poked down the hole, and if I could see inside it would be as clean as a whistle. Except I can’t as it wends it’s weavy way through every inch of the labyrinth under the hovel, out through the wall, under the shrubbery where Lizzy the blue tongue lizard sleeps, and beneath the car park.
I did think of pouring some petrol down, and lighting a match, but if you try that trick down under, they come down on you like a can of worms.

Finally, however, I have a solution! I would should Eureka! However, rather like Archimedes after leaping out of his bath, I’m covered, head to toe, in 30 years worth of raw sewage. When I unscrewed the vent cap off the top of the drain, there was a rush of air, a gloop, and a fountain between 2 and 6 feet high (depending on the tour guide) of the primeval gloop that was down my sink.

Would you believe the pillocks that built it, forgot to put an air vent in. Who would think that drains need air, or you end up with vacuum that will consume small rodents whole.

Socket and see

Let’s talk sockets. It’s not every day you sit around and discuss the design of that most urbane and humble of items, the electrical power socket in the wall – but in Australia when designing a renovation, it’s actually a matter of some importance. To me, that is. Pretty much everyone else ignores the things, and gets on splashing paint around.

However, while I’m lying on the floor drilling into the wall, to get the cables ready for power to the people, I’ve had plenty of time to contemplate the concept of power socket design.

There is however a problem with the design of electrical sockets in Australia. Two problems, infact. The design of the socket plate, and the design of the switch next to the socket.

Now, I’m not talking about the design of plug. Although, there is plenty to criticise here: it is a design first created in the US in 1916 (US patent 1,179,728 no less) and it started to be used in Aussieland in 1937 by electricians who had emigrated from California (also used by the Kiwis, plus bizarrely Argentina and Brazil). It’s now become a core part of AS 3112 – vital bedtime reading if you want a miracle cure for insomnia. With thin pins that can get bent, sockets are easy to damage, plugs frequently come loose, and it can only take a low current. There isn’t even a fuse in the plug to protect the cord. Good, it isn’t.

No, I’m talking about the universal rocker switch in Australia. Small and oval, it’s a pain to switch on and off, isn’t obvious which position it is in, and as ugly as sin. It’s nearly, but not quite, as bad as the US universal switch, the toggle.

Compared to the vast array of choice of both socket faceplates and switches you get in most countries, Aussie walls have identical white plastic rectangles (they come in only one size too!) with the same identical 1980s style of switch.

Which is why I’ve spend hours on this new interweb thing trying to track down someone – anyone! – who will sell me something totally different. A metal plate with a big switch.

There is a company in Queensland that imports switches from the UK: however they have to be individually tested and they cost a fortune: a fiver in the UK translates into well over $100 here. Or you can import them from the US or Japan. However – instant factoid! – did you know that in the US light switches are upside down compared to the rest of the world. Or in Japan they are sideways, to avoid the risk they may be switched on accidentally in an earthquake?

Indeed, it the AS 3112 Australian electrical wiring standard that is to blame for much of the design woes, as it specifically specifies (if you’ll pardon the alliteration) the small oval switch. Elsewhere it’s up to you, although in the US they like their rocker switches, but they produce an annoying loud click (The design, patented in 1916 by Newton and Goldberg, intentionally does this to stop the contacts burning out). Then there are rocker switches, near-universal in the UK where MK produce them in large numbers.

Now Clipsal, the German company which is responsible for blighting thousands of Aussie homes with its one design fits all approach has come up with – thank goodness – a proper metal plate socket too. Vastly expensive and still with that ugly switch, it does however offer the prospect of not making your eyes bleed.

I would go out and buy a dozen, but at $90 a pop, I don't want to hatch all my eggs in the one basket until the chicken hits the fan.

As for plugs – there is an alternative. A socket which takes both Aussie and UK plugs: considering the British Standard BS 1363 13amp plug is now becoming a defacto standard around the world from Hong Kong to Singapore – and 32 other countries - it makes sense to be able to connect. Alas, it’s even uglier than the plain variant!

Sat on a hot tin roof

Today, I’ve moved into the gutter. It’s a pleasant place, with good views, and excellent drainage.
Many Australian houses seem to have a problem with damp: mine included. There also seems to be corresponding connection between most Australian home-owners and their hatred of vines or climbing plants, which is odd, as the two are totally separate issues.

There is no doubt that one of the most effective transformations of any building is a covering of green foliage which periodically erupts in blossom. Even the most ugly 1960s Baulkham Hills eyesore fake Spanish disaster can have the chocolate-box aesthetic if adorned with the right plant life. Incongruous extensions mellow under a facade of greenery. In autumn, a house covered with flaming red Virginia creeper takes some beating. The long star-like leaves turn from green to stunning reds and purples at the time most other plants are starting to fade into the background. No less an authority than the Royal Horticultural Society recommends carefully chosen creeper. Wisteria for Regency Houses, Virginia Creeper for those with a Victorian aura, and hanging bunches of grapes for those moments when you want wine, and want it out of the window.

However, builders seem to have a hatred of the stuff. Quite often developers take thousands of pounds off the value of rambling Victorian buildings, covered with a carefully trained ancient wisteria, draped with delicate lilac lanterns, by removing the best feature to reveal an unrelenting drab grey exterior. From eye-catching to eyesore in an afternoon – much, it must be said, to the horror of local residents.

The same builders will often claim a miracle cure for damp, just by burning down the vegetation. It won’t, but that doesn’t stop them charging thousands for the privilege, and then thousands more to add in their next miracle cure of chemical damp proofing that rarely works.

The worst enemy of old houses is we humans - it's generally what we fail to understand about the building that causes most of the problems and make you think you have to Damp Proof it. In recent years, Rising Damp specialists and building surveyors recommending damp treatment have caused massive, and in many cases, irreparable damage to old buildings through their incompetence. Don't use them, particularly in Australia where most surveyors – as I proved in the postings from mid August – have little idea either about damp, creeper, or the construction of any building pre-1970s. It gave me a good laugh to read the surveyors’ report that damp in the house was probably as a result of the ivy on the walls.

Except there is none. Instead, there’s lots of Virginia Creeper. Gallons on it, climbing so high up the wall, it’s reached chimney level. Virginia creeper or five-leaved ivy (Parthenocissus quinquefolia) is a woody vine native to south eastern Canada. It is a noble plant, reaching heights of 20 to 30 m in the wild. Because the vine adheres to the surface by disks rather than penetrating roots, it doesn’t harm the building or masonry but keeps the building cooler by shading the wall surface during the summer, saving money on air conditioning.

It does however have the slight drawback that it loves gutters: they are at just the right height for it to bask in the warm Australian winters. And in doing so it successfully blocks the whole thing up.

Which explains why I’ve spent the best part of a day 20 feet up a ladder, on a baking hot day, while the lightning forks down around me, and the rain descends in torrents. Here it’s clear what the problem is. It overflows those gutters, and comes tumbling down the wall – coincidentally causing all those damp problems , that the builders assure you can only be cured by turning the building into an eyesore, and by spending a lot of money.

Rather to my surprise I didn’t get struck by lightning, and lived to tell the tale of a day in the merde, slowly scooping handfuls of the 20 years worth of filth out of the gutter. It was to the top of the brim, and had small trees growing in it – I’ve now got enough vegetation to keep my compost heap running for a year, gutters that flow beautifully clear.

Plus, a cure for damp that didn’t cost me a penny.

Be careful he might shear you

“Why on earth did you buy this dump?”So says our Telstra correspondent.

One of the delights of the Aussie Wit in the lucky country is their direct no-nonsense approach to communication. They see a spade and nothing will dissuade them from expressing an opinion on its use as digging equipment.

Now there are many good things about moving to a life down under. The Sun. The Beach. The Quaint trade practices that the mother country abandoned 20 years ago.

Like, for example, the curious way that Telstra will insist on sending around to your house a fully qualified telephone engineer to plug your telephone into your socket, in the rather curious 1950s belief that this is way beyond any homeowner’s capabilities. After all, these modern speaking devices are very complicated bits of machinery.

Bright new upstart companies have tried for many years to break into the Australian telecoms market, but Telstra still insist on employing legions of engineers, at vast expense, and then charging their competitors for the service.

Occasionally, politicians do try and save households money by introducing proper competition law into Australian, but they're faced with the unions and a dominant industry. Oh, and a hung parliament, which doesn't help.
And so, I get an engineer who comes round, and plugs in the phone. He doesn’t do anything particularly constructive, like work out the extension wiring, or even something as basic as plugging in the internet. Suggestions that he might are like water off a sheep’s back.
He does however give his judgement on the place. “Bit of a dump isn’t it. Heritage listing means you can’t even change the paint colour without a DA. Why on earth did you buy it when you could have a modern house like everyone else?”
Exactly.

The existential postman

Apparently, I don’t exist.

This profoundly dispiriting human condition has come about largely due to Australia Post, on whose shoulders much of the problems of the world must rest. And, when I phoned up the sorting office to ask why, in the past 3 weeks, I’ve had exactly no post, I got the rather strange answer:

“I’m sorry, but you don’t exist.”

This wasn’t exactly what I wanted to hear. However when I enquired about the conditions of this existence – or lack of - rather than hypothesizing a human essence, I encountered the natural existential obstacle and distractions including despair, angst, absurdity, and alienation. For the benefit of our English speaking audience, that is a slight dose of phone range.

And it’s not as if post for this house hasn’t been arriving – it has, by the bucket load, for The Firm (as they shall henceforth be known) that previously knew it as their address. There are invoices by the sackful, normally addressed to the head of purchasing, or the vice of supply, but as they get increasingly desperate, the invoices sometimes just name the company. You know they’ve lost the will to live when they just address their latest bill to “The occupant”. Indeed, despairing though these letters might be, it would be good to receive them in my box. But, like Godot, the letters never come, and instead get stuffed into my neighbour’s slot.

And that yields something else that existentialists know well - Angst, sometimes called dread, or even anguish which is a term that is common to many existentialist thinkers. It is generally held to be a negative feeling arising from the experience of human freedom and responsibility. The archetypal example is the experience one has when standing next to your postbox, where one not only fears looking in, but where one also dreads the possibility of phoning up the sorting office again, and then throwing oneself off the nearest cliff.

It’s not exactly a hard thing for the postman to put post in the box with the same number that it is addressed to, however after putting ever larger signs on the box, and begging them to put it in the right one, finally I do at least have an answer as to why this is, infact, impossible.

“You don’t exist. There is no registered post point at that address.” Pointing out that I’m calling from somewhere that doesn’t exist didn’t seem particularly helpful, and infact when I did mention it, it was clear that they were talking what I said with a huge dose of salts. Asking to be put in touch with someone who could make me, in fact, exist again, didn’t help either.

“When your house is built, ask your builder to get in touch with the council, and they will be able to get in touch with the land registry, and we will create a post point for you!” cried the Australia Post voice with a touch of glee, clearly having the joy that only getting an annoying Pom off the phone can achieve. “Do you have a completion date when construction will stop on your house?”
“1886”.

I do despair. It is a truly human condition. As Kierkegaard defines it in his Either/or: "Any life-view with a condition outside it is despair." In other words, it is possible to be in despair without despairing. And it’s not the despair I can’t stand: it’s the hope. The hope that I’ll get someone to make me exist.

And finally, at the Land Registry, I found someone who – with amazement in her voice – dusted off a piece of parchment, finally found the house, and even better faxed off said parchment to the sorting office with a map on it, and an arrow marked “post box here”!

As Sartre puts it in his “Existentialism is a Humanism”: Man first of all exists, encounters himself, surges up in the world – and defines himself afterwards. Or rather, the joy of the first piece of post: a bill from Foxtel, saying they are increasing their prices for viewers who just want to receive BBC World.

Well, that’s all right then. I can now get back to the main task of making sure the hovel doesn’t fall down.

Sweeping beauty

“But I always walk over your lawn. It’s shorter.”

I’m not sure if it’s a cultural thing, but in Australia I’ve noticed that there seems to be slightly less sensitivity to personal space and property. So, it came as no surprise to find that the house seems to have turned into a kind of short cut for anyone who is everyone, and no man shall stop them.

Now, my lawn may be shorter than it has even been – thanks to the attention of both the consistent gardener, and also my chopping bi-weekly with a little Victorian hand mower – but I don’t think this is quite what the massed hoards that use this short cut mean. True, it is much easier for them to walk up the garden path, and out through the car port, but as they wander through. But as I’m sweeping the lovely expanse of tarmac that was once – fifty years back – a lovely vegetable patch, I can’t help going into bucolic mode “git orf my land” mode.

On a separate note, to introduce a Pandora's can of floodgates into the china shop, let me recap on that last sentence. I did just say sweeping – which seems to be a bit of a novelty in Sydney, for come Autumn, when the leaves start to descend, there is also the romantic sound of dozens of demented chainsaws to be heard around the Hills District. It is the sound of leaf blowers. No one actually uses such a thing as an old fashioned broom in these here parts.

Other quaint old things that the neighbours have laughed at me for, include what I believe the kids call analogue devices, such as include sanding down wood with a piece of sandpaper – rather than an electric sander – driving a screw in by hand – using that old fashioned device known as a screw driver – and, here’s a novelty. Using a lawn mover that has no motor. Just a good old fashioned Victorian push along mower. It producers a lovely razor cut, and best of all, it is noiseless.

Life on the Hedge

Let’s talk trees. And not any old trees. Oh no, these are trees that spark wars, riots, and attacks of the manic hedge trimmer.We’re talking Leyland Cypress here – or Cupressocyparis leylandii, to give it a proper name. It’s the quickest growing conifer, growing as much 4 feet (that’s over a meter in Catholic) a year. At Bedgebury Pinetum in the UK the Leylandii are 130 ft tall and still growing strong.

The Leyland Cypress has been cast in the role of the villain, thank to a number of disputes between neighbours over boundary hedges. Back in the mother country, the Government is expected to shortly ban them, following the Department of Environment study 'High Hedges: possible solutions'. And a Consultation Paper on the topic. There’s even a telephone hotline to report urgent hedge problems –Hedgeline.

And yet in “A hedge too far” it is made clear that this is a noble breed. The Leyland Cypress is not found in the wild. It came about because man brought together two species from distinct genera of plants from different regions that would otherwise never have met. The parent trees came from opposite ends of the Pacific coast of N. America - the resulting cross between a Monterey Cypress (Cupressus macrocarpa) from California and the Nootka or Alaska Cypress (Chamaecyparis nootkatensis). The original progenitors were growing close together in a tree collection in Park Wood, Leighton Hall near Welshpool, in Powys.

The hybrid was named after Christopher John Naylor (1849-1926), the eldest son of John Naylor (1813-1889) of Leighton Hall; Christopher John changed his surname to Leyland in 1891 on inheriting the Leyland Entailed Estates. 20 years later, a cross occurred at Leighton Estate when the cones of the Monterey Cypress were fertilised with pollen from the Nootka. The result of that cross was baptised "Leighton Green" in 1911 – when my house was already half a century old. As a hybrid, Leyland Cypress are sterile so all the trees in Australia have resulted from cuttings originating in Welshpool.

And these Leighton Greens are what I bought down at Parklea Markets this weekend, at $10 a tree – a pricey sum considering I need about 20 of the blighters to screen off the road from the house. Odd though it may sound, this is actually an environmentally sensitive way of reducing the quite horrific road noise: a thick bushy green barrier is much better than high brick wall. It looks better too.

However I can’t help feeling that I'm living life on the hedge, and the neighbours, when they see the cute, wee, little trees, are going to form a ravenous hoard with pitchforks, axes, and the obligatory chain saw.

Mind you, you can't run around with your head stuck in the sand sitting on the fence. And it may take a while – the plants I put in are all of 18 inches high.

One hundred years of solid food

Moving to a new house is like frequent travel – it broadens more than the mind. There are many advantages to living in a historical cottage half way to the Hawkesbury. The charm. The character. The availability of takeaways.

Sadly, since moving here, I’ve discovered that the house is directly opposite a strip mall of some of the best takeaways known to man. Even rather rotund rolly polly man.I mean, just look at them.

For a start there is the Hilltop Indian, which specialises in both North and South Indian food (hmmm – hedging its bets then?) Then there is Danny’s Pizzas, with the best in Organic Pizza (the Pizza Palour previously known as Kellyville Pizza – also the best in Organic...) A Dominos, for those moments when the pizza company that knows no constant name won’t do. Thai Spy – guess what, they sell Thai. Do you see what they’ve done with the name there? Chinese, times two. A burger bar (which, alas, has a ban on beetroot in the burgers). Arthur’s Restaurant, with the best in contemporary Australian (which seems to be pasta, curry, steak, and pies). And look, there is even an offy! The list goes on.

And quite frankly, as a growing boy, I need this food. I’m certainly growing – outwards. Still, having someone else cooking is better than a slap on the face with a blunt fish.It may be windy on the top of these here hills, but there’s no danger of going hungry.

Pole to Dipole

UHF. It’s a word to strike terror into the heart of broadcasters down under.

Which is odd, considering the rest of the world adopted it a full half century ago.

I’m getting a little ahead of myself here... let me explain.

In the beginning there were dinosaurs. But they got too fat and died out. Then man arose. And he invented television. It used a system called VHF. However this was gloriously inefficient. So he moved onto UHF, as far back as 1972. By 1985, the last VHF transmission was heard – or rather seen – in the UK. But in Australia, they like to do things just a little bit differently, and continue to use the same technology that was designed back in 1935 when television first hit the ether. VHF (or Very High Frequency – as opposed to UHF: Ultra High Frequency).

And so, you end up with the curious sight in Australia of ranks of houses all looking like something that make a Radio Ham excited: huge piles of aluminium piled up on the roof, instead of small, neat UHF aerials.

Now, move forwards in history a little while, and you’ll get to digital TV. The Aussie government wisely decided this should be UHF only, and the valuable VHF spectrum sold off, to raise millions for the taxpayer. However Australian broadcasters looked at the costs involved at building a new mast, disagreed, and the government backed down. Coincidentally costing the taxpayer millions, but avoiding a nasty spat with channel 9 or 10, which could have brought down the government. Except for the ABC and SBS of course, who were told to go the UHF route anyway.

So – excuse me if I’m digressing – this is why you find me, standing on a roof with a great 12 foot long and 10 feet wide VHF TV Aerial straight out of the arc, trying to get something that few countries provide: Digital TV on VHF. After hours of trying, and rotating a little bit left or a little bit right, I gave up, and went back to the shop.

“This TV aerial is dead” I explained... no more, not even nailed to the pole. At least it won’t get any of these new fangled commercial channels – only the ABC.

They looked at a map, and then gently explained: because I’m more than 50km from central Sydney I’m in a regional area. Hence – no digital TV for me, unless I buy a “remote and rural” antenna.

To add in salt to injury, it’s fully 22 feet long, Log Periodic, with a dipole like central heating plumbing, and demands mountings that would stop the Titanic. Sadly, I’ve got one on special order from the manufacturer...