When I'm Cleaning Windows

"Oh, in my profession I'll work hard
But I'll never stop
I'll climb this blinkin' ladder
Till I get right to the top.

When I'm cleaning windows..."

-George Formby-

I couldn't get this song off my mind today. My mam would sing it as she went about her daily duties. Sometimes, she would even whistle the tune (and I'd try and copy her). We had the song on a scratchy LP record, too. I never knew each verse; just the chorus.

And cleaning windows was my profession today. Not actually cleaning the glass, but rather - applying paint stripper (professional brand. Nasty, burny stuff), leaving it on for ten minutes until the paint bubbles, then scraping it off with my trusty 38mm AND 50mm paint scrapers. Man, those scrapers are handy tools. So multifunctional!

Tomorrow, I get to use POWER TOOLS. The sanding machine, in fact - to smooth off any excess glossy paint.

No, wait.

I won't be able to use the power tools tomorrow, for the Grands are coming over. The Machinist phoned them yesterday and invited them for Sunday roast. I get to resume my domestic duties instead.

While I was singing my rendition of "When I'm Cleaning Windows", mixed with sudden outbursts of "Play that Funky Music, White Boy" and pondering why I put the two together in the first place, the Machinist was right next door, in the laundry room, fitting the back door and window. Definitely not the vocal malingering type, he, too, belted out his own version of the White Boy song.

I don't think the Machinist knows the Windows song at all. If he does, he didn't let on. If the neighbours who live over the hill at the rear of the Grand's Cottage didn't know either song, quite well before, they will now....

Eave Cleaning

Another day of icy, sleety, windy rain and working on the Grand's Cottage with the Machinist. This time, wearing my own brand of Armani tracksuit pants and son's jacket, which the Machinist had zipped and buttoned for me - right up under my chin (when you're wearing those leather labourer's gloves, you're all fingers and thumbs). So there I was - a picture of beauty, with stray strands of hair, rebelling against their ties. "I look really attractive today, don't I, Machinist?"

"Of course"

Number one son started chuckling.

"The Machinist thinks I always look beautiful, don't you?" I asked, looking up at the Machinist from the task of unpicking a roll of masking tape.

"You know I do..."

Ahhh.... So utterly reassuring....

I was supposed to be painting the eaves and guttering with Duragal, but as everyone knows, you can't paint in the rain, so the Machinist set me to the task of cleaning inside. Lots of empty tile boxes, plastic wrap, crumbled cement and grout, the Tiler's (numerous) cigarette butts, crushed pieces of chalky gyprock left over from tearing down mould-infested walls, a variety of broken tiles, the Tiler's snack wrappers, crumpled newspapers fully of paint-stripped paint (the girls have spent four days stripping many years' worth of lead and non-lead based paint from one window frame alone), sanding dust, broken pieces of quad (used in lengths to cover the joints between pieces of gyprock in the 'olden days'), villaboard off-cuts.

I was thinking about grouping tools and materials together and labelling them - "Plumbing", "Electrical", "Painting", "Gardening", "Power tools" etc etc, while gathering yet another pile of waste with a stiff bristled broom, when I heard the Machinist calling my name.

"I need you to help me divert the water from the rusty gutter, as well as finish scraping the flaking paint from the eaves before the weather gets worse"

Don't you hate it when you're just getting 'into' something?

"Ok, I'll be there just now. I first want to finish sweeping my 99th pile of dirt..."

And so - there was the Machinist and I - up on ladders in the drizzle, scraping old paint from the eaves in readiness for painting. We worked towards the corner of the building and met, looking upon each other. The Machinist blew me a kiss, and I blew one straight back to him.

Love is....

Drainpipe Finds

The new kitchen in the Grands cottage started life as two rooms; a kitchen AND a laundry. Neither were big enough to swing a cat by its tail in, so the Machinist decided to break down the wall and make one large kitchen instead. Oh, and he let our kitties off the hook, too.

(It was a fun day knocking down that dividing wall. The Machinist couldn't stop laughing as I took "girlie" swings at the brittle villaboard, while delighting in the sound it made as vila-shrapnel hit the tiled floors).

On the downside, we were left with a solitary drainage pipe, growing out of the middle of the new kitchen floor.

Today, while visiting with the Grands in their current home, their phone rang.

"Get that, will yer, mi duck?"

Translation: "Answer the phone, will you, my dear?"

I picked up their phone:

"Hello?"

"Hello, guess what I found in the drain pipe?" said the Machinist, exitedly.

"What?"

"Two screwdrivers. Can you believe it? How anything ever drained from this laundry, I will never know.."

Yeah, I know, my darling Machinist.

I know.

The Mystery of the Sign or The Sign of Mystery?

Looking more like a troglodyte by the minute with damp, wind matted hair, wild eyes, and wearing wet-at-the-knees track pants (belonging to the Machinist) and a baggy corduroy, fur lined jacket (owned by Number one son), I trudged towards the sign.

I could hear voices, coming from beneath the awning. It was the Machinist talking with a delivery guy. I could only see the Machinist from where I was standing and he could see me. He gave me that "what are you DOING up there?" look, and was just short of giving me the head flick, (indicating that I should disappear - quick smart), when I noticed a pair of feet, then legs, then a waist ..... then....

I was outta there, baby!

Prefering to resume my quest and actually touch the sign (rather than being seen by the delivery guy in my raggedy state of disarray), I tip-toed over a network of 'I' beams, with the skill of a trapese artist. There was a gap between the 'E' and the 'S' of 'RESTAURANT'. I pulled the 'S' (perspex) panel out a little to peer inside the (non-working Neon) sign. I've no idea what I expected to find, but I did, in fact,find something. A screwed up bundle of clothes was wrapped around the inner framework. The only reason I actually PUT my hand inside the sign was because it was daylight and I could see that there were no creepy insects, vermin or reptiles.

The panel bulged as I pulled the items of clothing from their harbinger of who-knows how many years. The first item was a navy blue ladies tracksuit top. Size medium. The second item was a navy blue ladies tracksuit pants. Also size medium. I left them - crumpled and forlorn on our wet tin roof. I knew what I had to do....

"Hello, Constable ----. How can I help you?"

"Oh, hello, this may sound strange, but I've just found a complete ladies tracksuit stuffed into the roof sign on the old Roadhouse..."

A policeman called around to our Shop later that day. He even climbed up the ladder onto the roof to inspect the clothing and confirmed that the dirty streaks on each item of clothing were definitely not blood stains. He promised to speak with his detectives about missing persons in our area, and call back to let us know whether to keep the 'evidence' or dispose of it. Early the next morning, he phoned and spoke to the Machinist.

We are to dispose of the evidence.

The mystery still remains, however.

Signing out,
Miss Marple.

Things You Find on a (Wet) Tin Roof

The Machinist is concerned with the insufficient water drainage at our Shop. The Shop roof coverage is huge, which means we SHOULD get a river of water running into the two concrete water tanks when it rains. The trouble is - we don't, because the gutters, although surprisingly still in good condition, are full of ten year's worth of leaves and pine needles, - rotted down into moss covered thick sludge. The gutters run the whole perimeter of the Shop roof, but there are only four downpipes, so when the rain comes down, it simply spills up and over the gutters, sometimes seeping into the eaves, but more than often, - dripping onto the ground around the building's foundations.

I sense this is not good. No wonder some of the rooms have mouldy inner walls....

The stormwater drains at the bottom of each downpipe are too small to cope with a sudden, fast influx of rainwater, and the ground surrounding the drains - particularly at the back of the Grand's Cottage - makes a squishy sound when we walk on it. We have skidded a few times, too, on the mud rink.

I was not surprised, then, when the Machinist set up a ladder, and pushed me up the ladder to scoop the organic material out of the gutters. I didn't want to go up there, but he pushed me....rung by rung.

I have to tell you at this point that a gutter scooper simply does not work. It scoops the material along the gutter, but when you want to lift the scoop out of the gutter and toss your bounty to the ground with a satisfying splat, most of it falls right back into the gutter again. (A 38mm paint scraper and a flick of the wrist works much better!)

Scooping gutter crud by kneeling on a tin roof is hard on a girl's knees, too. Every meter or so, I had to stand, stretch and bend at the waist to scoop, with my butt in the air, just so that my knee caps could feel the blood rush through them once again. Rain, wind and cold wet patches on - ahem - the Machinist's track pants that I was wearing weren't motivating factors for the job, and soon enough, I became bored and decided to investigate the expanse of tin.

On my expedition, I came across a multitude of odd items; items one would not expect to find on a wet tin roof. I told myself off for forgetting to bring the digital camera with me (yet again); the Machinist would be riveted with pictures of my finds. Surely.

I began gathering the items and displayed them together on one of the tin roof sheets. Large stones (had someone been pegging the magpies and cockatoos?), broken glass from a bottle, many rusty screws with washers attached (why hadn't the roof repairer moved them?), a long, pointy nozzle applicator for a tube of silicone, a paint brush handle (no bristles attached), a rusty tin lid, an electric switch box, pieces of electric chord, scattered balls of magpie regurgitation, a vignette of moss covered chicken bones (I think they're chicken bones, but I've often been wrong about these matters), and larger, more fossilised bones.

"What the....?"

I had been so consumed with my treasure hunt that I hadn't realised how close I was to the front awning, stretching over the old petrol bowsers and supporting the huge sign which reads
R E S T A U R A N T (and will one day soon read M E T A L S M I T H E R Y).

More on this tomorrow, for tonight, my lids are closing.... Please stay tuned.

Settlement and the Septic Systems

At last, settlement has taken place.

We are now owners of an unused petrol station - known as the Old Roadhouse, on a section of road which has been by-passed from the main highway for well over 15 years. Travellers still love to take the detour, though. Perhaps it breaks the monotony of highway driving, as they enter our small town, follow the main road and exit further along, back on to the highway. Or, perhaps they have a warped fettish to be embroiled in a scene like something from "The Hills Have Eyes".

Either way, venture into our small town and be lucky if you get out the other end... we will keep you here....

Snigger snigger... snort...

The Old Roadhouse (soon to be known as "Metalsmithery", but we sometimes refer to it as "the shop") comprises of a large gallery, a 16 metre commercial kitchen (gutted), an old cool room which still has ancient wooden panels, dark and dingy store rooms, a kitchen once used by the truckies (who travelled through our town when the old bridge was stronger and could take the truck weight), male and female toilets and a three bedroom cottage attached.

Did I just say "toilets"?

Since our takeover, we've bashed down mould infested walls, replaced broken windows, ripped a bathroom and kitchen apart, hacked down 10 years of undergrowth (in the cottage garden alone), removed trailer loads of rubbish, cleaned toilets, chain sawed old trees, ...

What? What was that? Toilets?

10 years of non cleaning, non disinfecting, non flushing toilets seem to have been the reason for my existence during the past couple of days. Indigent toilets and grease traps and septic tanks. Indigent of regular water flushes, and suction maintenance performed by our trusty A1 Cleaning man, Bob.

Bob is a force to be reckoned with. He has a huge red truck with a huge tank fitted on the back of the truck and a huge hose attached to the side of the tank. Bob stores his "working gear" on the side of his truck, but wears the same hat in and outside of the cabin. His winter beanie hat reads "Same Shit Different Day".

Sorry about that swear word, but it's just so fitting, 'cos that's what Bob has to deal with. Every day. It doesn't bother him, though, as he is just so pleasant and sports a good attitude at all times. Even when the wind and rain laces his face while loading his pumps, he is passionate about his vocation in life and will gladly explain the process of "sludge", "water" and "crust" to any who will hear.

It's me I worry about, though. What a sad state of affairs when one refers to one's septic tanks with pet names because one has spent quality time getting to know them. Helping to lift their lids, carting water while Bob stirs the sludge and suctions it out, as well as devising a plan to eradicate the Old Plum Tree's roots which have found their way into the dark depths of the tank's bellies.

"Motherload", "Sister Act" and "Cus"

Help! I need a life!

Progress

The annual Pumpkin Festival is over and the house is getting back to normal.

Sort of.

The pantry is fuller, as are the fridges. The frozen meat storage supply is dwindling, which means that we've actually had home-cooked meals once again. The Machinist is happy.

Autumn leaves have been raked from the front garden, carted to the back garden and recycled as blankets for harvested and weeded vegetable plots which have been - well - put to bed for the winter. Fruits have been salvaged and stored in crates before being ravaged by birds and insects. Other fallen and rotten fruit has been scooped up and removed. The Machinist is happy.

Ample laundry bins are now empty. Mount 'Fold Me' has disappeared and the whole family have wardrobes and drawers full of clothing they didn't know they had. There's no longer a need to go searching for something to wear in the chill of the early morning. The Machinist is happy.

The office 'IN' tray looks lonely and yet the file cabinet bulges with delight. Accounts are in order. The phone is silent. The Machinist is happy.

The purchase of property is moving ahead and settlement takes place in early June. Metalsmithery is now more than a dream. It IS REALITY.

The Machinist is happy.

Hand Tools

It's almost time to advertise our new business "MetalSmithery", and the Machinist and Number One Son are busy with plans on what type of metal designs they will make for the launch. It's important to always stay at least two to three months ahead of time and work on items relevant to specific holidays, seasons and up and coming event themes that aren't happening now, but in the near future. I learned this from many homemaking and country magazines that the Young Ladies and I read. For instance, the editors and staff work on Christmas topics and themes in October. Or summer fun and lots of outdoor eating and decorating in September.

It's my job to send photos, artwork and logos to the company who are busy building our website, and I find this very challenging, because I can't think 'creative' while I'm busy thinking and applying 'practical' to the here and now. I've realised, with chagrin, how underskilled I am at doing several things at once. A friend once declared that '...all mothers can do several things at once....'. I had to enlighten her to the fact that this particular mother could not. Fact is, I never could. I'm an all or nothing type of girl.

But you know - I try. I really do.


The Machine Shop has been steaming hot, as we have no insulation. The Machinist keeps both of the roller doors open for maximum breeze and air circulation. I am horrified at this, because I always have images of pesky brown snakes slithering in when we aren't looking! The cats and the puppies venture in and out all day long. They like to be with us, but ... well.... when the temperatures soar, they don't like to be with us that much, and they return to the cool of the plum or quince tree.


It was on one such hot day that I attempted to take my own photos of the Machine shop. I gathered some of the Machinist's HAND tools of trade, spread them out on a welding-splattered iron bench and proceeded to take the shots, trying to be really creative by using settings on the digital camera that I've never used before. One in particular called "Collections". I don't know if it's much different to the regular setting I use. I sent some to the Webmaster, so that he could spin his magic. (Thanks, Vent - www.ivent.com.au )

I'm waiting for the results and will post here when all is done...

Walking the Puppies

This is Bobby.....

And this is Polly .......

The Machinist made them a recherche ground floor apartment, situated under the back deck. Now that there is a nip in the air, the 'puppies', as we still call them, aren't too eager to leave their cosy kennel and throw themselves at the back door, (as they usually do in the morning) in an attempt to gain entry into the kitchen. Instead, they wait until they hear the sliding door open, scramble out of their blankies and race to the open door. They won't come in until invited, though, as that would be thoroughly bad manners.

The Machinist positions me at the front door. I hold it wide open, and hide behind it. Then, he opens the back door, greets the puppies, (who are at this stage yelping with excitement) and tells them "walkies". They race through the kitchen, then through the front room and straight out of the front door, where they suddenly slam on their paw-brakes.

"Where's the mistress?" they seem to ask, looking around the front garden for me.

The puppies are just too cute, and I can't stand it any more, so I step outside and fuss them, while the Machinist clips their leashes onto their collars.

It's usually around 6.45am when we go walking. There is a thick line of mist at the bottom of the range, while the top is burned amber. There is dampness in each breath we take. The smell of ripe berries on hawthorn bushes fills the air. Neighbourhood dogs bark as we pass their territories. Garrulous cockatoos are common, early morning rioters. A daring rabbit crosses our path, and the puppies begin to tug....

The Machinist tightens his grip on their leashes.

We arrive at the oval. Time for the puppies to be let loose and race against each other. Bobby is unclipped first, and he goes for a pee in the same place each day. Polly copies him, determined to have the upper hand. As Bobby takes off, Polly barks at him, as if she's reprimanding him to slow down, or to let her go first. Bobby ignores her, and begins to race around the perimeter of the oval. Polly chases him, running as fast as her short, stocky legs will carry her. Suddenly, she trips over a large sod of grass, and her chin slides along the hard, compact earth. Only for a microsecond, though.

Yes, Polly is really determined.

The rest of the morning walk is usually uneventful, as the puppies are wet from the morning dew (they despise being wet), tired and panting. The Machinist lets them off a little before our driveway. Bobby does his usual pee, Polly copies him, then they race to the house.

And the winner is.......

Bobby!

Musical Distractions

This is a pic of my dear Da on my son's drums. He and mam had come to visit for the day and just after lunch, while the Responsible Adults were chatting around the kitchen table, Number One Son started pelting on his musical instruments.


Drums. Guitar. Drums. Guitar. First a blast from one, then the other.


Not wanting to miss out on the fun and the action, Grandpa left the table, walked down the corridor and poked his head around his grandson's bedroom door, knocking half heartedly, while already propping his right foot between said door and doorframe. Then, he was in the room, with drumsticks in hand, still musing how much he prefered the Uke to any other instrument. He began to ra-ta-ta-ta on the drum, now and again clashing the cymbals with a mere flick of the wrist, while all the time, sporting a cat-eating-cream look on his face.


Not long into the jamming session with his grandson, Grandpa was left aghast, as Granny, having moved stealthily and swiftly across the room, gently took the drumsticks from her dearly beloved's hands and proceeded to have her turn at the set;




Here she is thrashing it out with Number One Son.

Note that granny has one of the girls' black aprons on. She won't work in the kitchen without it, so we make sure there are plenty of aprons in the drawers when Granny visits. We're getting a little worried now, though, as Granny's distraction is evident; she'd rather have fun with instruments than kitchen duty.


Sheesh, what's this world coming to?

The Machinist is Having an Affair

The Machinist is having a love affair with the secretary. It’s true. He can’t keep his eyes off her. She walks into the machine shop, and he stops what he is doing. Sometimes, when he is welding, he will detect her perfume (White Linen, Estee Lauder) and suddenly, cut the arc, reaching for his welding helmet to lift up the visor. He confides in his workmates that the secretary is really ‘hot’. He also confides that he gets the secretary to sit on his knee in the office. Fortunately, his workmates are diligent to remind him that the office door has glass in it and that they can see right in. The Machinist says he is the luckiest, most blessed man alive to have a love affair at work, in the tranquil setting of the Australian countryside…