I'm Digging a Ditch Where Madness Lives

Sometimes when things are at their darkest a little ray of sunshine beaks through.

Not that our darkness can even cast a shadow on the circumstances of many people in this world; we are so blessed really. Still, any regular reader of this blog will be well aware of the limitless dysfunction of this family (and these are just a few examples) and I am sure our builders would attest to the same.

This past week has been yet another litany of stress:
Himself's business (why oh why did I get involved? Oh yes, because they needed someone who would remember to pay the bills); mounting unfinished jobs at work which were meant to be completed during the holidays (wooooosh....that was the deadlines passing); the builders (so where do you want this down pipe?); No 1 Son, here for a short spell which has extended to months (not that we mind except that we know he is simply avoiding things); the BA's approaching 18th birthday with attendant monster party (what was I thinking????); a nasty letter from the taxman...
So it was with a delight bordering on rapture that I came home to this tonight.

Why, you ask me? Well, it seems that both my stepsons have worked together, for the best part of a day, to dig trenches in unforgiving clay soil, so that the storm water may be connected up tomorrow ready for the paving to recommence on Thursday. They also purchased the required PVC pipe and assorted joining pieces.
Unsolicited.
Without supervision!
For no monetary reward.
And without killing each other.

Just when you think they are beyond hope....... <3 p="">
Here's the finished pergola awaiting the paving.

When that is done I get to pick up the new outdoor setting, hopefully before May 11th when the BA has her birthday party............

I mean, why do it with time to spare when you can have the enervating experience of biting your fingernails right up until the last moment?

In Which The Builders Blush

Picture the scene: it is mid morning on the day after the builders were supposed to have started our pergola. On day 1, a truck finally turned up at 2.30pm with  all the materials, but there was no sign of a builder. Now, I am dressed to the eights (I rarely make nines nowadays) and coming out onto the back, half built-patio to say goodbye to Himself, whom I can hear in conversation with what must be the builders. It is 9.30am and I am due to meet my friend for coffee at 10am (I am on holidays after all).

Hoorah for the building starting.

But.......

For several weeks, Himself had been in conversation with Lance and No 2 Son regarding the progress of their paving and the impending arrival of the pergola guys. Despite his constant reminders, today there are two substantial piles of dirt and bits of broken brick, paver and vegetation, sitting oh about approximately exactly where they will be most obstructive to the recently arrived builders. I am aware of this, after all, we had spoken to No 2 Son last night as he arrived home around 1am. I had also decided that it was not my problem.

So, there I am on the semi patio, about to say goodbye and leave Himself to it, when the conversation begins to get challenging.

Builder: Well we will definitely need this stuff removed. We need to get scaffolding in here (indicates pile one) and of course this (indicates pile two) is where we need to dig a hole for a post!

Himself: Arizaphale can you go and wake up No 2 Son and let him know this will need to be moved?
Arizaphale: Sure....(thinks....I have no need for this head anyway)

Sound FX: tramp tramp tramp down the stairs to No2 Son's  bedroom....knock knock knock
Voice from within the room: MMMMffffff???
Ariz: Hey No 2 Son, you're going to have to move those piles of dirt. The builders are here.
No 2 Son: uhhhhhhh. OK.....Uhhhhh....how soon do they need them moved?
(Did he NEEED to ask??????)

About 10 minutes later No 2 Son emerges from the depths of his unclean bedding and regards the piles of dirt.....He is is ropeable.

No 2 Son: I TOLD Lance that we needed to do this but oh no, he was too cheap to hire a skip and wanted to do the tip run all in one go.....
Himself: Well, you'll need to move it now
No 2 Son: Why am I left to do all the work?????
Himself: Well go and wake Lance up and get him to come and help.
No 2 Son : Well I told Lance that we needed to do it and he told me that you'd said it would be ok.....
(clearly the waking of Lance is not something No 2 Son relishes, a sentiment I am familiar with )
Himself: I never said it would be ok! I have been telling you for THREE WEEKS now that that this area would need to be cleared for the builders!!

And this is where it went pear shaped......

No 2 Son, if I have not mentioned it before, I suspect to be on the autistic spectrum. If not, he is definitely language disordered and fails constantly to fully process what we are saying to him. Unfortunately, because this was not diagnosed early in his life, he has plodded on convinced that he has made himself clear and continually angry becuase the rest of the world has NOT made itself clear. No teacher ever made him aware of due dates, no ex-employer really told him what he had done wrong, no parent ever clearly defined what was expected of him in the home environment! Apparently.

So here we go.......

No 2 Son : NO ONE EVER TELLS ME WHATS GOING ON AROUND HERE. I TOLD LANCE THAT WE NEEDED TO MOVE THESE PILES BUT HE TELLS ME ONE THING AND YOU TELL ME ANOTHER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

This is not going to go well is it?

Himself: I told you three weeks ago and my instructions have not changed in that time

No 2 Son: I WISH SOMEONE WOULD JUST TELL ME WHAT'S GOING ON. THERE'S NO COMMUNICATION BETWEEN YOU AND LANCE AND NO ONE EVER LISTENS TO ME.... WHY CAN'T YOU ALL COMMUNICATE PROPERLY????

At this point Himself, who had been doing a reasonably good impression of a patient father, completely lost it and began throwing things into wheelbarrows himself whilst roaring at full bark volume (as in, more bark than bite) that he had clearly explained the need for moving the dirt, and enhancing his protestations with a hefty dose of 'f' related invectives to emphasise this point.

The next 5 minutes involved a fairly fruity (those weren't the 'f' words by the way) rendition of the same three points: 'I didn't know' and 'I definitely told you' and a fair bit of 'go **** yourself', 'no you!', 'no YOU!' etc

At the end of all this, Himself stamped off late for his appointment and in a hell of a rage;  the builders were hiding in their truck; I had changed into my digging gear and No 2 Son had driven off in a rage, presumably to go and try and wake up Lance who was conveniently not answering his phone. I also had to text my dear friend to explain why I would not be there on time.

I called on the BAmeister to give me a hand in the disassembling of the two piles of dirt and she manfully put on some gloves and started sifting through the piles for greenery. Before I could lift a spade to assist her, the builders, who on the departure of my men folk had emerged sheepishly from their truck, pointed to the pool plumbing and announced:

"According to these plans, there's meant to be a down pipe in behind there........"

Now it was my turn.....

After several phone calls to the supervisor, some creative thinking and the dramatic realisation, on my part, that these builders were not going to connect up the stormwater....

("Read the fine print madam, it's there in your contract..."
"What, you mean the one I never saw because I thought my husband had organised it all????")

.....the pergola frame is up, the plumbing did not need to be disassembled and the down pipes are in reasonable locations to assist me (and whichever boys I can co-erce) in connecting up the stormwater.

I think the builders may have been traumatised for life. I know I certainly was!!!

Where Do I Start With The Dysfunctional Paving Company?

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, the dysfunctional family are whirling themselves up a dust storm of trouble.

For anyone unfamiliar with our set-up, we have No 2 Son (quite possibly on the Autistic Spectrum) living with us, The Baby Angel (my only progeny), also living with us, and No 1 Son, recovering drug addict and tormentor of his bro, back with us for an undetermined length of time, having been forcibly ejected 5 years ago and now here for a 'holiday'.

Himself also has two ex step children from his relationship with the mother of Small Boy (a child who no longer speaks to me and is stirring himself up a mess of trouble over at his mother's place where he has been wagging school and handing up no work despite changing schools at his request, having had an assessment last year which showed he has a dyslexic profile and having had a Support Plan put in place. But I digress).

One of the stepchildren, I'll call him Lance, is a reasonably skilled young man who quit school at 16, because he could, and has tried a variety of jobs over the last 7 years most of which he tossed in because they required him to get out of bed before midday. Recently he has decided to start up a little business himself, doing landscaping. Himself, out of the goodness of his heart, asked him to quote on the paving of our yard.

Does this have disaster written all over it or what?

He came over initially, took measurements and sold Himself on these pavers >. He then went away to do his 'calculations'.

Three weeks later, Himself told me to look for other quotes. He also told his ex that Lance hadn't got back to us so we were looking elsewhere and lo and behold, there was Lance on a Friday afternoon, with his quote. It was for $7000. A further few measurements were taken,  we discussed the direction of laying the pavers, the placement of some beds to break up the corridor like appearance of the patio and off he went to finalise the quote. It came in at $13,000!!! When queried about the sudden jump in price he replied,
"Oh, well the first time I forgot to include labour costs."

Are the alarm bells now ringing loudly??

Himself was keen to give them a go. He had also assigned the task of building garden beds and levels on one side of the new retaining wall, to No 2 Son.

This photo was taken at the end of January, after No 1 Son had weeded out a stubborn shrub and No 2 Son had thus been shamed into weeding out a slightly smaller but no less gnarly nandina. The quote was in, the job was scoped....everything was set to go. The pavers arrived on the 28th of February.

As of yesterday, this was the progress.

The general work hours seem to be 11.30am til 12.30pm followed by a two hour lunch followed by an arbitrary hour, or not, afterwards....followed by knocking off at 3pm.

There has been some discussion over the slope of the area. The lads want to lay most of the pavers horizontally across the corridor with a vertical row running parallel to the roof-line of the house, draining any rainwater into the basin under the tap (see first photo). I have mentioned to them that it is illegal to run storm water into a sewage drain (not to mention the fact that I do not want a row of vertical pavers dissecting the already narrow patio!) but have heard no response. I see no reason why the patio cannot slope towards the retaining wall, and if a drain is necessary, an in ground channel could be laid along the wall to take run off toward the storm water drain over near the pool equipment. Anyway, whatever they do with it....it better not be contrary to building regs!!!! >:-( I feel this battle is one we still need to have. Himself has a limited knowledge of all this sort of thing and as a result feels quite resentful that I wish to have a say in it. It's a man thing.

So as the days grow short and the working hours of our 'contractors' grow even shorter, I am left wondering whether we will have to engage some professional pavers to rescue us from the mess these two renegades may possibly leave us in! The whole thing needs to tie in with the pergola (commencement date 22nd April) and the BA's 18th birthday which we hope to hold on the 11th May. Fingers crossed.

Oh well, we always have this......

In Which I Discover I Am Not As Young Or As Fit As I Was

So, when I left you the other night, I was falling asleep at the computer and trying to fill you in on the saga of our dysfunctional family and their attempts at DIY.

Having done my bit, which consisted of hacking the solar matting off the roof with a palette knife for four hours and hefting it up the back stairs into the skip, I turned to clearing the dark pile near the soon to be concreted slab.  Taking the first few layers of branches off the top, and using my patented method of filling an old bedsheet with cuttings before gathering the thing up by the four corners and slinging it over my shoulder......kind of......, and struggling up the back steps to the skip; I made reasonable progress to start with. Once the foliage was cleared, it became evident that the builders had, at some point, dumped a whole lot of clay soil on top of my original pile of ivy and rose bushes.

That there at top right is my original pile of ivy and rose bushes.

This (below) is a reminder of some of the things which had been dumped on top of it.

With a sense of resignation I fetched the shovel and steeled myself to the task. The shoulder repair was holding, the temperature was bearable, I should be OK. Surely?

I sank the shovel blade into the orange mass of clay and rock.

BOINGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG

The shovel virtually bounced off! Lurking beneath the ghastly heavy clay was all my ivy and rose cuttings, foiling the slicing shovel at every turn!!!!

Did not the air turn blue? Did I not curse those builders from here to breakfast time (and I'm quite good at cursing. I learned it off Himself)? I mean, how much effort would it have taken to ask me to MOVE my pile of cuttings??????? After all, I was IN the house at the time!!!!!!!!

After an hour or so of scraping at the pile and sifting out the bits of greenery, I had transferred most of the dirt up onto the old paving, behind the new wall.

The pile was no more.

Neither was the lawn, but as that is going to be paved over eventually, I was relatively unconcerned.
The shoulder had proved itself well. There was pain, but I was able to do what needed to be done. And there was wine for afterwards so....it was all good.

But now the saga of the slab begins.

In the fourth picture above you can see the pile of bags of pre mix concrete our No 2 Son had purchased with his 'wealth' of experience in the building industry and the maths skills of his erstwhile brother.

Erstwhile brother relaxes and gathers strength for a new bout of 'younger brother tormenting'.

After a number of days had passed, with little more than a bit of formwork being erected, No2 Son approached me with his usual blend of sheepish belligerence (I was about to go to work in the lead up to the kids coming back).
"Well, I'm going to need some more concrete to do this slab."
"Ummmmm (not sure how this relates to me or why he is telling me)...."
"Well, noone told me it needed to be 150mm thick...and now you've extended it......!!!!!"
"Yes, well, absolutely (thinks* you were there when we realised it had to be 150mm thick...*). Oh well, how much to you think you'll need?"
"Probably another 15 bags or so...and I have no petrol in my car! I haven't even got enough to go to the petrol station!!!!!"
Putting aside the question of how he was going to get petrol into his car in the long run, I could immediately see that my day was about to be severely curtailed.
"OK, I'll take you to the hardware store...."

Now I have quite a little, girlie car.

And bags of pre-mix concrete are, like, 30kg each.
I have to admit to wondering how many I could get into my boot.......
Nevertheless off to the hardware store we went.
"Pull into the trade entrance," No2 commanded, assertively. I did. To find five cars and a couple of trucks in front of us. No 2 Son graciously carried the 5 bags of premix from the shop floor to our distant car. I was grateful. I paid out the $35.00
"Oh, that wasn't too bad,"I said,"Less than I thought it would be....."
Famous last words.

We chugged home cautiously, No 2 Son giving me the benefit of his 5 years of driving experience to tell me that my stopping distance would be longer with all that weight in the back. No S*** Sherlock. I'll not mention my 33 years of driving here....with heavy loads.

We got home and unloaded the bags. I picked up my first 30kg bag like a baby and grunted my way around the side of the house and up to the back garden. Did I mention our house is built on a hill??????? After that I conveniently checked the mail and found something really important to do, having lifted the bags out of the car for enthusiastic No2 Son. In the end, all 5 bags made their way around the back and I retired inside to recline in the cool, with my Keith Richards autobiography.

After about an hour, the sweaty face of No2 Son appeared at the wondow.
"We're gonna need MORE cement!!!!!!"

Now, I don't know if you're familiar with the concept of pre-mixed bags of concrete. They include a perfectly measured combination of sand, aggregate and cement ...all you do is add water. They cost $5.99 (approx) each. Let's look at what we'd spent so far: 15 x 5.99 = $89.85

I came back with 6 bags of cement. Three of which I had had to carry and place in the boot on my own, before the otherwise occupied attendant rushed to my (grunting) aid. $36.00 all up.
Total: $125.95

I brought the car round to the back gate where we have dual enterence to the property. I could hear the industrious sound of the manual mixing of concrete in the wheelbarrow. I looked at the bags of cement; I looked at the gate and the back stairs....I hefted up the first bag.

totter, totter, grunt groan, stagger stagger stagger.......
down a step
down another step....

As I reached the last step No2 Son looked up.
"You ok there?"

Now, if you have any idea about the social use of language you will recognize that this statement does not mean "hold on til I get there" or "I see you need my help"....
Nope it's a pretty genuine question. Because after all, you couldn't figure out that an overweight 52 year old with a recently reconstructed shoulder might be struggling there... no, you could not.

As I flung the first bag of cement on the ground, with a grunt, he started to rant at me about something the glass/decking/retaining wall people were doing to annoy him. Feigning interest I proceeded back up the stairs for bag number two. I gotta tell you. 30kg is 30kg! These suckers were HEAVY.

This time I struggled to keep the slippery bag in my arms as I reached level ground. I dropped it wih a grunt and a curse and No2 Son looked up from his wheelbarrow again.
"Are you ok there?"
"Well, not really.."
"Only it would be better if you could bring them down while I keep on mixing, cos the sun is getting hot now...."
Now most ladies at this point would have said "Bugger you, get your own bags down from the car", but some weird twist of pride in me determined I keep going.
By the fourth bag I was starting to shake and dropped that sucker pretty hard when I hit ground level. No2 was unconcerned as I turned around and tripped over the garden hose.
"*^%$!!!!!" I spluttered, stumbling across the patio.

Foruntately, my bellowing curses woke No1 Son. By the time I got half way down the back stairs with the next bag of concrete he was up, awake, and halfway up the back stairs to greet me.
With a trickle of sweat coursing down my back and a profound sense of gratitude, I transferred passage of the 30kg bag from my arms to his.

I'm not sure No2 Son even noticed that his source of supply had changed...or if he did, it was in a perfunctory:
"Well lookee that.....someone else brought me the c-ment."

 No 2 Son washes his dainty feet while No 1 Son takes over mixing.

In his defence I will have to say that it has long been my belief that No2 Son is on the Autistic Spectrum.....or at least has a Pragmatic Use of Language disorder. And after all, I could have just stopped!

So I staggered inside again, to recover from my trauma. About half an hour later, two sweaty faces appeared again at the wondow.
"We're going to need more bags of premix!!!!!"

Here is our little slab, half laid.

I piled back into my girlie car and zoomed off to the hardware store. This time the yard was clear and a nice young man took pity on me after one bag and loaded the other 5 bags for me. I chugged back to the garden and stood at the top of the back stairs calling for someone/anyone to help me get these bags out of the car. I gave up and reached in for the first bag. This time, the 30kg felt like 60! I cradled it like a baby and staggered on trembling legs towards the back gate. No 1 Son saw me and cemented his place in the will by leaping gazelle like up the steps to relieve me of the load.....

I repeated these actions at least once more that afternoon.

Total number of bags used = 33. Total cost @ $5.99 per bag?
$197.67
I wonder, would it have been cheaper (or at least simpler) to have got a truck to dump x tonnes of sand, cement and aggregate near the back fence???.... never mind....

Here is the inspection point which was uncovered in the excavation of said  slab site.

And here, finally,

Is the finished article. Reckon they'll clean that fence??????

Doubtful, given that this

is how they left the brand, new wheelbarrow for three days, until I declared it must be otherwise, in stern terms......

 And finally, here is the slab in situ with the first joists of the decking going in last week...

And here it is starting to come together.

More photos later!

What Do The Flying Dutchman And A Hammer Drill Have in Common?

If there is one thing Himself and I have in common, it is our attitude toward those age-old, gender specific arts of cooking and DIY. Deep seated, nay abyss-like, feelings of helplessness, failure and the overwhelming belief that we are somehow less of a man/woman for being unable to provide for our family in these time honoured ways, lead to well developed practices of procrastination and avoidance; me in the kitchen and Himself in any setting involving say, a ladder and a drill.

For example, when the end of the long working day arrives, rather than affectionately considering the heart warming meal I will prepare for my hard working husband and ravenous teenagers, I savagely mutter something like, 'I suppose I'd better think about dinner' and then storm off to fold washing or vacuum or, heaven forbid, do some school work: in short, anything other than cooking. When faced with a DIY task such as....oh I dunno....say putting up some venetian blinds in the BA's room, Himself manages to find something else that needs sanding on the boat or a pressing work related computer task...or, if I am really lucky, a close encounter with the lawn mower: anything which does not involve hand operated power tools.

We both feel similarly that our best, most well meaning efforts are doomed to failure. The other night, when we were asked to 'bring something' to a Sailing Club dinner, to accompany a roast, my paralysing insecurity saw me look up a recipe for Cauliflower Gratin on the web. As I prepared to follow the instructions something in my gut told me that cooking the cauliflower for 10 minutes before baking it was a bad idea, and yet, the recipe came from the web and therefore MUST be more reliable than me. The ridiculously large quantity of cheese called for seemed, in my extremely humble opinion, destined to curdle the white sauce and yet, I unwaveringly followed the instructions to the letter, determined to bring delicious, feel good food to the dinner party as a tribute to the other guests.

Predictably, my yearning for Earth Motherhood was once more dashed upon the soggy rocks of the inedible ship wreck of a gratin. Himself saved the day with a swiftly concocted and artistically arranged salad. I went to the dinner with a countenance like thunder and the reinforced belief that I am not much of a woman. I mean, women have been preparing meals for their loved ones since the dawn of time. How hard can it be??????????

But this post is not about me. Really. I am merely trying to communicate the depth of feeling accompanying Himself's aversion to DIY. We have had the venetian blinds for the BA's room for months now and we had promised ourselves that we would get them up whilst she was away this week. Well, of course THAT didn't happen but Himself did take the bracket down to the local hardware store and get appropriate screws and rawl plugs for the job. And then decided to mow the lawn.

Today, with a little encouragement, we made a start. Within 10 minutes I made the mistake of asking why he had purchased plasterboard screws when we were drilling into brick. I was just wondering! The 'dummy spit' was spectacular. He was off the ladder and out the door shouting that I could 'get a little man in' to do it if I wasn't happy with his work in seconds. And this was before he had even switched on the drill! Some judicious soothing and the assurance that I knew how he felt (see above story) calmed him sufficiently to get back onto the ladder. He lined up the drill and applied power.

Now we have had problems with this wall before. The double brick is phenomenally hard and drilling holes has proved trying in the past. I held my breath. The drill screamed, the dust flew, the bit advanced rapidly through the plaster and hit brick. The pitch increased, Himself applied more power. The bit spun wildly, and ineffectively, for 2 minutes before the air filled with a blue fog of expletives, the like of which had not been heard since last week. The drill hit the floor and Himself hit the road, heading for his garden shed and a calming cigar. I decided to take the drill and the bit down to the hardware store for advice.

At this point let me take you back in time.

When I was 12, my 7th grade teacher played us 'The Ride of the Valkyries', I think it was to inspire our creative writing but whatever the motivation it had a huge impact on me. I loved it! I came home singing 'dah duh dudah daaaaaa da' and excitedly explained to my classically leaning father the wonder of this dramatic piece. He smiled at me indulgently,
"That's not The Ride of the Valkyries," he explained gently, "that's 'The Flying Dutchman'.
This stopped me in my tracks. After all, my father knew everything but my teacher had showed us the cover of the album and told us the story and.. and.. and...

Dad lead me to the hallowed lounge room and the sacred record collection and reverently drew out an LP boasting an atmospheric drawing of the legendary ghost ship on the cover. He placed it on the turntable and as I listened, the familiar strains of 'dah duh dudah daaaaaa da' issued forth. How could this be????????

I don't know how we worked it out but the flip side of this album was 'The Ride of the Valkyries'. Someone at RCA or where ever had pasted the record labels on back to front (link in case you are a child of the CD age and do not remember that once upon a time you had to turn records over). For his entire adult life my father had been under the misapprehension that 'dah duh dudah daaaaaa da' signalled the approach of 'The Flying Dutchman', because of some quality control issues at Decca.

But what is the connection I hear you ask? What does this have to do with
Himself and his drill phobia? Well, when I got to the hardware store the technical advisor tested the drill and showed me that there were two settings, one for hammer drill (essential for drilling hard concrete and metal) and the other for more gentle, standard rotary drilling of wood and such. The drill had been set on 'rotary'. I asked to see which way the switch needed to go and there, before my very eyes, was The Flying Dutchman. The label indicating the setting was on back to front. For the last twenty years Himself has been trying to drill concrete with a screwdriver and put in screws with a hammer drill. No wonder he hates DIY.

We got one of the blinds up. The other one will have to wait until next weekend.


Image credits

Flying Dutchman

DIY Disasters

Drills

Best Shot Monday: Nurturing Independence

Here is my favourite shot from the last few weeks.

People have asked me why I am such an 'independent woman'? I have changed tyres, shock absorbers, tappit cover gaskets, hefted furniture, put up guttering, removed plaster, raked out cavity walls, dug sump drains.....

I could not quite remember where this had come from until recently; until Grandma and Grandad bought the Baby Angel some new drawers from Ikea.

The whole buying thing happened whilst I was at work so I was delighted to hear that Grandad and the BA were going to put the drawers up together on the weekend.

I particularly like the picture of the little man in the left hand corner above; the one with the question mark over his head. The caption should read....'remind me again why I didn't avail myself of their 'erecto' services??'

I hung around for the first set of drawers and helped sort screws and bolts and the like.

But the two of them pretty much had it wrapped up. There was discussion about the different types of screwdrivers available, about ratchet screwdrivers and how to use them, about nudging dowels in with a mallet and other useful bits of DIY advice! And I think suddenly I remembered why I had become such an independent handy-woman. Our dad has always encouraged it in us.

May it stand you in good stead Baby Angel.

For more wonderful photography, check out Best Shot Monday.

Sorry To Disappoint

I know, I know, I promised you pictures of the new Guest Room today but seriously, it's just not ready for unveiling yet.

I need to get a new quilt. I mean, I have the cover, but without a nice, fluffy quilt to go inside it just looks like a pair of sheets! We need furniture. Apart from a bed I mean. A pair of bedside tables and a lamp or two are required. We need new lighting. The faux colonial open glass shade with oversized energy saving bulb hanging down from it just doesn't create the ambiance I had in mind.

A rug would be nice. Some prints would take the starkness away from the walls. *sigh* It just isn't finished yet! I took some photos of the BA in situ but even with her beautiful presence it still looks like a closing down sale at a bed shop. On the last day. With one bed left.
So, sorry folks, maybe next week?

But to whet your appetite or at least give you something to look at, here's the Small Boy and the Baby Angel on their way to see The Mighty Bays * play in the SANFL Grand Final last weekend. And yes, their colours are gold and black! Unfortunately, the game went so badly that they left before the final siren :-(. Poor old Himself hasn't had any luck in the footballs stakes this year.


* Compare Glenelg's paltry website to the sensational job Himself and his team do on the
Mighty Roosters' site!

Before. VERY DEFINITELY Before.

I think I mentioned that No 2 Son came back to 'clean out' his room?
Exhibit a).




Might I add that I risked life and health to get down on the floor close enough to this filth to take pictures.
And, to be honest, this really doesn't do the extent of the squalor, justice. I was unable to take photos of the bathroom as I was gagging too much to hold the camera still.

Why are teenagers so feral? Why do they not have a 'dirt' radar? I mean, we're not just talking a layer of dust here people!!!!!!

Tomorrow is Crafty Tuesday and I will save the 'after' shots for then. There is still a lot to be done but at least it is now clean. Ugh.

New Workstation is GO!!

Ta Daaaaah!! My finished desk with all my junk in situ!!!! Well, not quite all my junk. There's a set of drawers, in the old cabinet, that I haven't emptied yet. Designer Husband is very unhappy about the black storage unit I've snuck under the end there. It spoils the line of the desktop where he's cut it off at a beautifully 'designed' angle.

And yes, sadly that is scrapbooking on the desk top there. The marking I should be doing is the black and blue bags under the desk.....as yet unpacked. Which reminds me, I was up 'til 4am the other morning marking and survived the next day at school with only a 30 min nap in the staff room at lunch time. Amazing what a new desk can do for you!

Male Egos and DIY

For sometime now I have been in need of a work station with better bench space for marking copious piles of English essays and Geography tests! My current computer console is very compact and neat and suited my previous home exactly, used as it was in conjunction with the kitchen table. Here though, I have had to spread my mess over two rooms and certain family members are starting to get sick of it! (my plan is working mwahahahaha).

Now my beloved Husband is a very talented man with many artistic credits to his name but he loathes and despises DIY. Rather like me in the kitchen, he feels he is not good at it and he is never satisfied with his efforts so he avoids the whole thing. Most repairs around the place utilise ducktape. Efficient but ugly. Anyway, as a result I had asked a friend's husband (who is an excellent carpenter and rather creative himself) if he would help me create my ideal work station. He was happy to oblige and all we needed to do was get the recycled benchtops from behind our shed, down to his house for power sawing purposes. This relied on Husband's co-operation and as a result....didn't happen.

Instead, like a rag to a bull, the concept of another 'man' doing the jobs Husband sees as his 'role' around his domain, spurred him to great heights. Last weekend we celebrated the birthday of our Monarch (hem hem) and received a Public Holiday for our trouble; Himself saw this as an opportunity to create my ideal workstation. He started by cutting the inch and a quarter thick MDF boards down from one metre in width to 800mm, by hand. It took him all Saturday.

By Sunday the masterwork was ready for assembly and was duly attached to the wall. Unfortunately, the months between storing the MDF behind the shed and retrieving it this weekend, had been rainy ones. The boards had warped and any small scratches or chips in the surface allowed the ingress of water, resulting in a welt-like raising of the surface in a less than charming manner. This required a day of sanding and fiddling until by Monday it was ready for 'finishing'. The original board had been stained with a wood effect stain but this was now so badly damaged as to require a new start. We either stripped the MDF or went over it with something else.

Here Husband came into his own. He raided the shed and found a few half empty tins of paint in red and yellow and proceeded to undercoat the whole thing. He spent the entire day layering, overlayering, dragging, adding a bit of orange (found that in the shed too), relayering, redragging
and generally coating the thing with about 8 layers of paint. It now looks like woodgrain again and I for one am amazed by the transformation......however, I suspect it will take a week to dry.

He tells me today that he is not quite happy with the colour, it's a little too pink, and the surface could do with another sand....sooooooooo....I guess I won't be moving in for awhile. Still, you have to admit it looks great for a guy who hates DIY. And the amount of time he's spent! He must really love me. Or really want his kitchen table back :-D