Sun! Sun! Wherefore art thou, sun?

It’s 1130 and I’m forcing myself to stay out of bed (I sleep strange hours) so I can try and take a good photo of our brand spanking-new wall to send to those friends who I’ve dragged through the journey of The Wall.  Poor bastards.  The patches of blue in the sky are getting smaller and smaller and I don’t think the sun will make it over the surrounding mountains because we are no longer in the middle of summer.

I miss the sun.

I grew up in Darwin in the 70s and 80s where I had more bathers (swimmers/togs/cossies – insert preferred term here) than I did clothes.  The weekday routine was to sleep in knickers, wake up and put school uniform on, moan about having to wear shoes and then say you’d put them on at the bus-stop but totally lie about that and then come home and change into your bathers.  On the weekends you’d just skip steps 2 and 3.  Going to the shopping centre involved throwing on a t-shirt because modesty and if we went into the city I went all out and put on a pair of shorts and thongs, too.

I was classy like that.

This was before the days of SPF +100 and compulsory wearing of hats – I don’t think I even owned a hat – and dire warnings of skin cancer.  It was free and it was fun.  You didn’t get sunburned because OW! and you cooled off under the sprinkler or, when you were old enough to ride your bike to the pool unsupervised, the pool.  An outdoor pool that wasn’t shaded by a massive tent and that had grass and trees around it.  And you’d spend the whole day there.

But I digress.

Not seeing the sun for weeks on end makes me sad.  And grumpy.  And tired.  And a bloody nightmare to live with.  The short winter days aren’t the only things that make my SAD flare up, it’s the constant grayness that does, too.  This entire summer we probably had a total of 3 weeks of sunshine.  Not heat, I must point out, except for a couple of days when it hit the mid 20s – just sunshine.  And only at certain times of the day because of the mountains.  Last year we managed to escape to Turkey for a whole week and it was GLORIOUS!  But not this year.  The joys of being completely broke.

Stupid Wall.

*Aaaargh!  The sun just came out so I rushed down to get the desired photos and then it was gone.  Bum.*

But then this cheered me up with it’s complete lack of intelligence.  Or maybe it’s learned behaviour.  Then it’s just depressing because those words aren’t even close yet enough people have made that mistake that it’s been added to the list of choices.


P.S.  It’s 1534 and I’m looking out of my window at the bloody neighbours across the bloody river whose properties are swathed (hang on, let me check if that’s the right word . . . . yup.  It’ll do) in bloody sunshine and light whilst mine is all doom and gloom.  Bastards.

At least I can see blue sky.


I love the comic Stone Soup by Jan Eliot and this one?  It’s how I get through.

It’s only a wall . . .

So my very clever husband (hereafter known as the Hub) decided in early spring that one of our external walls wouldn’t survive another winter.  I think the fact he could push his finger through the wall is what led him to this revelation but I’m not one for technical details.  I’m the design component of this team.  So while he’s measuring and consulting and figuring out exactly whose arse we’d be extracting the funds from, I’ve wandered into the local hardware store, briefly looked at the available colours and gone “Yup. That one’ll do.” as compared to feverishly surfing the web looking for the decorative details. The omramming and vindusknekt.  Yeah.  I had no idea, either.

All I wanted were pretty windows in a traditional style to take the house back to when it was born 200-odd years ago and thought “I’ll just plug in those insane words and all the businesses who sell them will pop up.  I love Google”.  No.  No I don’t.  Have you ANY idea just how many Nordic bloggers talk about omramminger and vindusknekter (the plural forms.  Oooh!  Language lesson.  Bonus.) and show pretty pictures with absolutely NO useful information at all?  Pretty much all of them.  Now ask me how many businesses sell these bloody things.  Go on, ask me.

Bugger all.

I searched and swore and hid under my doona whilst my beloved Hub rubbed my shoulders and looked in wood supply stores on the sly.  Nada.  And then he found some vindusknekter and intended buying one to bring home for my approval.  Until he saw the price.  He came home empty-handed.  Good call, hunnybunny.

So I returned to the internet and continued my search until, miraculously, I found someone who made them at home.  Cheaply.  With quality wood.  The Hub was shoved in front of the computer to buy them.  Buy them now!  I.  Must.  Have.  Them.  So he did, bless him.  And then the wait started.  I’m sure the poor postman started fearing for his safety when he would turn up empty-handed day after day.  The wall was up and mostly painted, windows had been replaced and all we were waiting for were the vindusknekter (plural form, remember) so that we could use them to create a template for the omramminger.  You thought I’d forgotten about them, didn’t you.

And then, one glorious autumnal day . . . they arrived.  Happy dance!

They were beautiful.  I made the templates for the omramminger, the Hub cut them out (first time he’d ever done that so, clever Hub!) and the multiple layers of oil and paint went on them and then they were done.  And then they were up.  And then after an amazing amount of fapping about and waiting for the weather . . . dah dah daaahhh . . . the scaffolding went down today.

window (683x800)Ta-daah!

The observant among us will notice the time it’s taken to get to this point.  6 months. 6 friggin’ months.  For one wall.  The Hub says only 5 months but I don’t believe him due to his irritating habit of looking on the bright side of things.  The physical and emotional exhaustion, the pain,  the expense and worry for 6 months over one wall was much, much more than we had anticipated.  We thought it’d take a couple of weeks, maybe a month, tops.

We have two more walls that need replacing.  Pray for us.

WTF, flies? It’s OCTOBER!

I’m sitting on my lounge with one of those electric tennis racquets right next to me because I, foolish as I was, opened a window for 3 minutes and now it looks like that house out of Amityville Horror.  You remember?  Okay, so not quite as bad as that but still . . . it’s worse than bloody Australia in summer!

P.S.  The Hub is a complete show-off.  He was all like ‘Look!  7 with one blow’.  Not really but if he keeps this up I may have to smother him in his sleep.  But then who would kill the flies for me?  Bugger.  He’ll have to live.  So close.

Testing . . . testing . . .

Okay.  This is slightly surreal because a) I never thought I’d ever do this as I never have anything interesting to say and b) I can’t imagine anyone listening to what I want to say.  Unless they’ve been trapped by social convention and are just too damned polite to push me out of their way and make their escape.

It’s just occurred to me that I know some very polite people.  Huh!  Who knew.

I just wanted a place to write stuff down, stuff that confuses/scares/amuses/amazes me (and you would be surprised to know how many things are included in all categories), that I can look back at later on.  And show my shrink on demand.  If I get one.  The Outside is welcome to pop in and visit and share their thoughts but only if they’re nice.  There is too much ugly in the world as it is – we shall try very hard not to add to it.