When I'm Cleaning Windows

One of the beaut things about living seven or so floors above the ground is that you don’t have to clean windows, not that we have ever been in that position, but Joan and Ian have, and we're happy to have shared their predicament.

It’s not that they don’t get dirty, but more the fact that it’s difficult to assemble enough handles onto one squeegee to reach them while standing firmly on the ground, so if you want to have clean windows you have to hire a chap to do it.

Access to them used to present a problem at the building design stage, when all sorts of contraptions and ledges were designed in to provide safe (a relative term) access for a few hardy souls who made a career of cleaning windows while clinging on. Now that we live in the era of adventure sports and extreme games and at a time when everyone’s grandmother seems to have had a parachute jump to celebrate their ninetieth birthday, finding window cleaners isn’t nearly as difficult.

The world these days seems to be full of people willing to hang from the end of a rope while swinging backwards and forward with a squeegee in one hand and a bucket in the other.

Of course if it weren’t for Workplace Health and Safety inspectors there’d be more of them I’m sure. There’d be a real risk of them breeding until, like the windscreen washing people at street corners, they’d start swinging down buildings without being invited, hanging in front of one’s apartment until paid a tip to move on.

Perhaps there's a reason we should be thankful for that Safety stuff after all, although I do wonder at the requirement to wear steel capped boots.

Rock climbers can buy special slippers clad in stuff that’s so sticky that it makes flypaper look like teflon, and I have to confess that if my life was hanging by a piece of blue rope I’d want to make sure that I wasn’t going to slip too, so what is so remarkably dangerous about window cleaning that gives rise to potential injury to ones big toes?

I can't imagine that the steel caps in the boots of a cleaner would be particularly useful if they were hit by say, a falling refrigerator while suspended a hundred metres above terra firma, but perhaps they are a means of ensuring that the absailor's toes are prevented from being bent upwards for hours on end. Just as in years gone by, there were hazards which left symptoms which clearly identified one's occupation, like "black lung" for coal miners, perhaps they prevent "pixie toes" in Window Cleaners.

I suspect that's why that particular form of boot with the pointy curly toe and bell on the top of it is rarely seen anymore. There are just no more people with curly toes.

Thanks Workplace Health and Safety People, I can sleep soundly again!

Water

I don’t think I’ve ever come across any unnatural spring water and I shudder when I try to think of the form that it might take, but when the cabin attendant delivered my bottle of natural spring water the packaging gave me cause for reflection.

I suppose in defence of the marketeers that there are very few ways of making water attractive in the marketplace short of calling it beer.

I did give passing thought to the fact that when one is sitting on an aircraft, desirous of a simple drink of water, one could probably question the need for marketeers involvement in the packaging at all.

I imagine that if I was the manager of the graphics department in a large marketing company I’d be inclined to leave the packaging of something as simple as a bottle of water whether from a natural spring or not, entirely in the hands of one of the upwardly mobile young things in the office, it’d be great experience for them after all. A bit of a taste for the real world eh?

It wouldn't be a task that would demand a good deal of experience I would have thought, but do think I’d stop short of flicking it to someone on work experience from the local tuck shop though.

I’m not usually prone to giving harsh criticism of this sort of thing, after all the label on a water bottle label is hardly going to have a lasting impact on the way I live, and it was hardly going to be an impulse decision, held firmly as I was by my seat belt unless moving around the cabin. I must say I was initially curious rather than impressed by the simplicity of the somewhat drab, two toned grey colour scheme, spoilt by what I thought was a mark where someone had pulled a bit of sticky tape off it.

Perhaps the words “Fresh Spirit” rising vertically in the fine print were there to instill me with confidence that this water was not just natural, but supernatural. Or had they just cropped the label a bit long and left some printing from the margins in the real thing accidentally, I wondered.

Then I put my glasses on and realised that what I thought was an unfortunate accidental defect in the packaging was just as unfortunately although quite irrelevantly, an apparent rendition of a cloud.

A cloud, juxtaposed with a flying kangaroo, a natural spring and a fresh spirit, on a blue-grey sky, with a wide grey land hanging below. All I wanted was a drink of water.

Next time I think I'll have a Coke and leave the natural stuff to people who understand these things.

Irony

We were contemplating the folly of driving the equivalent distance of London to New York and half way back again, while towing two small boats to a regatta that could not be held because of inclement weather, past drought ravaged lakes and dams and rivers, none of which were in a navigable state because of the drought.

There must be a word, we thought to describe driving so far without so much as getting the boats wet.

Then, somewhere between Menindee and Broken Hill, the radio crackled and faded back into reception range to the tones of a talkback caller having a grumble about the difficulties he was experiencing with life in the outback, so far from a built up area.

"It's the irony of distance," he explained.

And it was.

Been anywhere lately?

As someone who’s had the good fortune to travel extensively under the guise of “work” it seems really strange to contemplate the fact that in our minds we haven’t actually been anywhere for almost a year.

As you read this, we’ll be in Sydney, which qualifies as being somewhere no doubt, but when I was there last week for a day's business, it didn’t, for reasons which don’t seem entirely obvious although I think I’m starting to get a feel for it.

Not going somewhere involves leaving home about one and a half hours before the flight is due to depart, having spent five or ten minutes packing the requisites for the day, driving the hour and a bit it takes to get to the airport, and casually arriving at the departure gate to join the last of the boarding passengers.

There’s no luggage to check in or out when one isn’t going anywhere, just a train to catch or a hire car to pick up, and appointments to be kept, and a process to be repeated in reverse at the end of a very long day.

Strangely, when we’re going somewhere, there are no appointments, so it doesn’t matter if we’re a bit late. Why then are “we” packed at least twenty four hours before departure, with things laid out on the dining table so we won’t forget them?

Why have we double checked the booking, and why are we going to leave at least two hours before the flight just in case. In case of what? The days are also long, but they never seem to be as tiring.

Last week, when I was in Sydney for the day on business there was no excitement, it was simply time travel.

This week with no business agenda, well there is a bit of excitement at the very least from one corner of the room, because it’s travelling time, and there’s the difference!

Dishwasher

It's not as though the mother of our children was particularly harsh or hard to get along with, but it has to be said that there was a time when they were (occasionally) trying.

I suppose they were being teenagers really, or at least the eldest two of them were, and while the younger was lagging somewhat in the aging stakes, she was equally happy to oblige when it came to providing the occasional discordant note.

I arrived home late one night. Perhaps it wasn't late in the sense that it was later than usual, but it was late enough for the sun to have set some time ago, leaving the footpath in sufficient darkness that had it not been painted just exactly the right shade of white to reflect the first of the moon's rays I almost certainly would have tripped over the dishwasher.

After further thought, since the thing was glowing a dull yellow sort of colour that would be a pretty fair indication that it was a street light reflecting in it rather than the moon, but I didn't take too much notice at the time, being a little curious as to how a dishwasher had taken it upon itself to fall asleep on our nature strip.

The mystery became somewhat more perplexing as I entered the house, and couldn't help but notice that apart from a hole in the kitchen joinery which appeared to be exactly the shape and size of the appliance I had just met, the place was in a near deathly silence.

I'm not sure if it was the silence, my open mouth, or my countenance which to be fair was probably reflecting an entirely more confused self than the one which usually accompanied my arrival home from another challenging day in the office, but whatever the case, my arrival was greeted not with a welcoming hug, but with a sort of barked proclamation:

"I've told them that if they didn't stack the dishwasher when I asked them, I'd get rid of it, and they could wash and dry up every meal," the voice said, in a tone and a volume that lead me to believe that either my beloved had reason to think I'd lost part, or perhaps all of my hearing during the day, or alternatively she may have been a tad unhappy about something.

Relieved that it was nothing I'd done, and anxious to ensure that it didn't become something I'd done, I expressed my wholehearted support for this splendid strategy, and set about ensuring that since it wasn't me that didn't stack the dishwasher, it shouldn't be me that washes up!

To be fair to all parties, following the events of this particular evening, the miscreants did indeed wash and dry for the next few years, until it was deemed that sufficient time had passed that perhaps dishwasher stacking could be looked forward to as a labour saving novelty.

When in due course a replacement machine was installed, it was treated with a new respect to which it soon became accustomed.

Ever since that day, to their eternal credit, while ever the young ladies in question were living with that particular machine, it was indeed regularly stacked and unstacked with something almost approaching enthusiasm, at least apparently, lest it should once more be subjected to eviction.

The question of whether the habits developed at that time remained with them beyond the bounds of that particular kitchen is a subject perhaps best left for a future post, although it is suffice to say that at the time of writing, as none of them currently own a dishwasher, the question is probably moot.

The Good Old Days

Often when one hears about the good old days, it’s hand in hand with phrases like “they don’t build things like they used to”, and accompanied by knowing nods from all directions.

Well of course they don’t. Technology has improved, tools have improved, and we’ve all learned that there are better things to do in life than dust around intricate carving or cornices carved to look like some ancient Egyptian flower.

Nothing sparks a more irrational misty-eyed dose of hankering for the good old days than a visit to a lovely old house built in the vernacular style of Queensland around the turn of the twentieth century. For reasons unfathomable, these brilliantly portable structures constructed almost entirely of single thickness tongue and grooved boarding have reached dizzying heights on the scale of romantic desire and almost equal heights in crediting tradesmen with the skills of artisans, that they really by and large did not possess.

While legend has it that they are superbly suited for our sub tropical climate, the reality of life within is that they aren’t at all insulated, have poor cross ventilation, and seem to produce dust through every crack in every board.

I would hate anyone to get the impression that I don’t like them, I do, but I also have a far more pragmatic approach to assessing what is and what is not a desirable feature in a house!

What they do represent superbly is a skillful and efficient use of structural materials which was particularly innovative at the time that could not be emulated in today’s legislation ridden world. Built entirely of lightweight materials that could be easily transported, they were the epitome of transportable building. So adaptable are they to this that more than a hundred years later it’s not uncommon to see them cut in half and carried by truck and trailer to a new location, sometimes many hundreds of kilometres from their original siting. They were however, built to a simple formula, requiring little in the way of specialised skills apart from rudimentary carpentry.

While some were comprised entirely of tongue and grooved boarding, others like the one our friends Chris and Kaz have, had ceilings of pressed zinc in ornate patterns which emulated the fancy plasterwork in houses built in a more substantial style. These mass produced panels heighten the illusion that a “master craftsman” had been present all those years ago.

Of course in those days, ceilings were a long way above the floor and the lighting wasn’t particularly adequate, rending it quite difficult to make other than a quite arbitary assessment of the real level of craftsmanship, which is how the ceiling bloke got away with it in our friends Chris and Kaz’s house for so long.

In the pressed panel ceiling model, typically a decorative cornice and frieze, also constructed of pressed zinc would be used to join the ceiling and wall in a visually suitable manner. To ensure the illusion of plasterwork is complete, a decorative cover strip is usually employed on the corner mitre with the odd flower and leaf arrangement designed to distract the eye from any crack in the join.

In the living room in question, there was clearly an error made in two of the mitres, leaving a larger gap than that which could be accommodated by the standard fitting.

The builder, obviously tired of the job, and wanting to get home and onto the next job found a novel way of overcoming the problem.

Clicking on the photo above will render a larger copy of it, in which the plain corner mould can be clearly seen. With no decoration, no flowers, no vines, it looks like something that doesn’t quite belong.

And then the form begins to look vaguely familiar and it dawns. The master craftsman has decided that the simplest way of overcoming the problem is to manufacture a wider strip, but the only material he had to had was the inner soles from his boots.

A few tacks later and a quick coat of paint, and no one will find it for a hundred years! Try doing that with your triple gel, anti shock, no smell, g-force orthotic liner from one of your joggers.

The really don't make things like they used to!

I had a bit of a travel day last week.

To be more accurate, I left home well before dawn one day and arrived home at a few minutes past the next morning.

It’s a really weird thing, travelling for twenty hours and arriving back where you started without actually seeing daylight at home, sort of as though the day never happened. It’s very much the way I imagine time travel would feel. Everything is just a little older when you arrive back, but nothing’s been moved.

In terms of meals it never did happen. Sometimes between airports, trains, meetings, buses, hire cars, more meetings, the sun going down, still more meetings and a frenetic two hour drive back to the airport to catch the plane to a place which is a gentle ninety minute drive from home, it just isn’t possible to find any time or place for food.

Which is why it’s nice to travel home on Qantas, where “refreshments” are included in the fare.

I saved thirty dollars by flying out on one of those airlines where everything is an extra cost.

“Coffee sir? That’ll be two dollars please.”
“Did sir want a cup with that? That’ll be three dollars please.”

I have no idea why I have an aversion to paying five dollars for a cup of instant coffee that would have been warmer if it had been left in the sun for an hour or two, but I do. I have an even bigger aversion to paying for a piece of leftover yesterday’s sandwich too, but that might just be a hangover from when I last flew from London to France on Ryan air, when a cheese and pickle sandwich which looked as though it had been stolen from an ancient history museum, cost about the same as renting a flat at the beach for a month.

The bloke sitting beside me must have had a similar aversion. He bought a can of Coke and a Mars bar for breakfast. “That’ll be seventeen dollars please.”

If we were to then fast forward through time to a point that was least a dozen or so hours after I had last eaten, I could be found sitting on a flight home this time with “refreshments” being served.

Dinner at last. I can't say that I was expecting the world, after all the service was described as a "snack" by the ever attendant attendant, who duly handed me a slick curvy green box which would not have looked out of place on the shelves of a Body Shop outlet, except that instead of containing some sort of secret lotion, on it were written the words:

Sea Salt Lavosh
Pesto Dip
Sugar and Spice Biscuit

I had no idea what a Lavosh actually is and it’s a testament to the educational benefits of travel that I can now report that Lavosh is three crackers sealed in a small cellophane bag.
Apparently.

Having had my mind suitably broadened, and being reasonably familiar with the term “Pesto Dip”, I began to wonder what a “Sugar and Spice Biscuit” might be.

Sugar & Spice Biscuit
INGREDIENTS
Wheat flour butter sugar (22%) oats egg spices (1%)

It was late and I was tired and hungry, but no matter how many times, nor how many ways I added up the ingredients they always totalled 23%.

Twenty three percent.

I have no idea how the physics of that works, although I'd like to learn more. Imagine the power one would wield if one was able to say, fill one's fuel tank using just 23% , or if one could use the same technique at a Weight Watchers weigh-in.

All I know is, that when I did the mathematics later (and please don't ask me why I did, but I did), the cost of the airfare home, was an amazing 23% exactly, more than the one that didn't have the food service.

I don't think I'll ever know what to make of any of that, but I don't think I'll ever read a label again either.