Fur from the Madding Crowd

One of the delights of having a little ball of fluff helping you out when you’re renovating, is that the little tinker tends to pick up anything small, and wander off with it. Particularly as this little small creature is in training to become a good ratter, and so likes to wander off with pens, screwdrivers, and once even a small hammer to take into a corner and chew to death.

Bluebelle, the Blue Point Himalayan cat

Right now I’m at the stage when I need to put a door back on the East wing bathroom. For some reason some anonymous idiot decided that it made sense to have an open plan bathroom; even more nonsensical when you consider that there are two open plan offices in the laundry at the back, and so everyone can hear when you go.

It is however rather impractical in a normal house: plus, the little ball of fluff tends to stick her head into holes in the floor, drains, and pretty much anything else she can find to play with, in between the usual bursts of eat-play-sleep, eat-play-sleep until the cows have, literally, gone to sleep.

So, to get around this, I needed a door, and the same idiots who took it off, also left it leaning against the wall in the West Wing: it’s a perfect fit, or would be if they hadn’t taken off the door jam, and replaced it with some fibre board from Bunnings.

A little bit of jiggery-poker with a spare bit of trim from the gents loos, freeing up the hinges with 3-in-1 (a lovely oil from the UK, that thankfully Woolworths in Australia import at vast expense) and back pops on the missing door.

Bluebelle: up on my shoulder, like any good cat

Alas, one other thing was missing: the door handles have small grub screws to hold the handle in place: they also look very much like a grub to a young cat, who after playing with it (you know, to ensure it is dead) for 20 minutes or so, when asked to hand it back, inconsiderately ran up the corridor with it between her teeth. I finally cornered her in the dining room, where with nowhere to go, she took one look at my trouser leg, jumped up it, dug her claws into my chest, and with a monumental effort launched herself onto my shoulders, where she sat like a rather contented parrot.

With a rather satisfied grin, she opened her mouth, and out popped my grub screw. I thanked her, as I was staunching the flow of blood from the large open wounds in my legs.

For the Perm of his Natural Life

Yesterday, a tree fell on the house.

Which would not be surprising if we were in the centre of the cyclone zone up in Queensland, in the flooded devastation of Victoria, in one of the many other earthquake zones, well, anywhere you name at the moment.

But no. Just good old Sydney.

However, we do have a special type of tree of the genus Eucalyptus – called optimistically the Widow Maker.

It has a habit of dropping large (often half the diameter of the trunk) boughs without warning reducing the life expectancy of anyone who lives under one by about half, and making the kitten’s hair stand on end in a permanent perm.

This form of self-pruning may be a means of saving water or simply a result of their brittle wood. This is also an efficient way of attracting wildlife that live in the holes formed which gives the gum trees a source of natural fertiliser.

However it’s put a massive dent in car port, and if the car had been under it, that would have been the second Ford to have been written off in two months.

However it’s no use leading a gift horse to water without making it drink, so  I woke up and smelt the music: this one tree will keep the log fire going all winter.

The Fridges of Madison Country

I’m getting fed up of desks. They are everywhere. Every single office I go into, there is another desk. Except, these aren’t offices any more. They are rooms, and will – one day, in the long distant future – be part of the house.

Take a desk, any desk. Please...

However the builders left behind dozens of desks, in the rather optimistic hope that someone would want them. Or possibly because they couldn’t be bothered to get rid of them. Either way, the house is desk a go-go.

However, I need more space – particularly because I want to get cracking on bathroom, and to do that I need to make a laundry, which at the moment is doing a good impression of a garden shed, being, as it is, rammed full of bikes, lawnmowers, a BBQ, and even, yes, a spade.

So, this lot goes into the office which for want of a better word is being called the junk room. And that in turn means that all the junk has to go. Including the 10 or so desks in there at the moment.

I did briefly consider sawing them up for logs: it is the onset of winter after all. However wiser councils prevailed and I’ve now gone for the wonder of a Council Cleanup Day.

In Australia there isn’t really such a thing as the local council tip. Instead, they’ll charge you if you turn up with Range Rover loaded to the gunnels with desks. Or any household junk you name. Which is why you often see abandoned fridges by the side of the road all over the counties in the Hills: it costs too much money in Sydney to be tidy. However twice a year you can ask the council to come around to your home, and clear away the rubbish. Which is what I’ve done. Now the desk are on the street, awaiting a little man from the council.