The Knowles'

Yes it has

2005-12-05T13:55:00.000-08:00

Hi all,

I guess we've all been slack on the blog since mum and dad came back from Europe.

Jon, cool sounding job, but if it was me I'd spend all the dosh in the shops there.

G has been hard at it, building the house. We have a bottom slab and some walls that we can build the top slab onto. When that is done - hopefully before Christmas - we will be able to build the top early next year. When I say "we" I mean G. I am a non-executive director of this project.

We are gearing up for the silly season. I haven't been in work since mid-October, but at first I was busy with the play I was in and since then I have just been looking around. I am too lazy to go to the city and G is torn between enjoying me being at home and freaking out about money. It would be great if someone would pay me heaps of money to work part-time in Penrith or even better in Springwood, but seeing as how half the people who once lived in the city now live here, the competition is high and the money is low.

Mum and dad have been tooling around the place in their motor home all nice and cosy and they seem to like the retired life. We had a party last Saturday and Xavier and Tammy showed off their martial arts' skills - Tammy teaches little kids and Xavier got some kind of coloured belt grading in his class. Audrey's friend Penny fell out of the bedroom window, but as they all ran giggling back into the house she concluded that she wasn't hurt. The house was filled with revellers (not hard with this house) and we put up a tent in the back garden which frightened Bean so much she refused to go outside in the night and did a wee by the back door.

Next weekend is someone elses Christmas do and the next is Carols in the park, followed by the Glenbrook Players party and the next is Christmas. Luckily I am an avid Op-shopper and can always manage to pick up a stunning frock for about $5. Somehow I have also managed to find top label shoes in my size for the same amount. One pair of gorgeouse sandals still had a price label of $250 on them. I'm thinking of setting myself up as a "second-hand stylist". What do you reckon? I am starting to know my friends sizes and always end up getting something for somebody. I also can't wait to decorate the new house. This one is so tiny that I find myseld making something and having no room to put it when it's made. Consequently my groovy round cushions in 50's style fabrics with button middles are shunted from room to room, while my covered half-screen sits on a stack of plastic storage boxes waiting to be hinged together.

Ramble ramble......

Bye

:: Been a while....

2005-10-25T07:21:00.000-07:00

Hi all,

Just a quick note to let you all know I started a new job today at 443 Oxford Street, opposite Selfridges. I am working as business technical support manager for a mobile phone gambling company on the up.....

All right pay with six month reviews, share options & the probability of exciting travel options to exotic locations such as Beirut, Kazhakstan & St. Petersburg. Plus I'm working with old friends of mine from the Beenz.com days.

Will let you know more when things develop.

Love Jon.

Parralizin

2005-09-02T06:02:00.000-07:00

Evenin all
Parra 28
Brisbane 14
Parra take out the minor premiership
I know most of you don't give an Eels arse about this, but so what!
They have finished on top of the comp and now await the Grand Final, most likey against Saint George - shades of yesteryear.
Nathen Hindmarsh was injured early on in the game and is off having his MRI scanned (wherever that is!).
Tim Smith was awarded both the coveted Rookie of the Year for Parra and Man of the Match honours. The males of the Allshorn (Caroline's) family - all rabid Parra Fans - are equally impressed (her baby brother Luke celebrating like a wild thing already and her dad considering this as his personal Fathers Day present).

Happy Fathers Day to all the Knowles' Dads
Mark, Tammy and Caroline

Marina, The movie

2005-08-31T14:07:00.000-07:00

In its first week of selected release to an exclusive circle of critics it is already winning plaudits and being hailed as a likely Palme de Merde winner at Cannes. A thrilling, violent story of a family torn by secret desires and the fangs of hunger, Born-in-the-First-Half-of-the-last-Century’s Happy da Birfday is a classic mix of Tarantino and Hitchcock.
Director Martin Fridgemagnet makes a guest appearance with his wife, Kelly Bacon, as a food-obsessed couple in a land of plenty, and there are fine supporting roles from the usual suspects the sinister Markso Wingma-Sheen, curvaceous Caro Linedancer, dogged Samantha Houndstooth, hounded George Doggo, colourful Wendy Fangspotter and the blundering Chris Juggler.
But it’s the young stars, the restless River Jorden, rugged Kevin de Cline, beguiling Tammy Ayke, smoldering Xavier Silent, twinkle-toed Saskie Shoeshine and the amazing method actor Arkie Napper, who steal the show.
Members of the first night audience were unstinting in their praise. “I couldn’t stop laughing,” said Ron Knowles, clinging to his wife, Marina, for support outside the Chequers Inn.
“It was wonderful,” said Mrs Knowles. “I’ve always loved Lassie films, and that steamy love scene with Bean was beautifully done.”
The Marina birthday DVD from the family in Australia has been rapturously received, and Jonathan played his part too, in talking Dad through the computer program to get his laptop operating.
We have had other delights, too . . . we have come across the best pub we have yet to find in France. It is just a 15-minute drive away at Agens-Minervois and we are already making friends with the landlord, Gilbert. (When it’s pronounced “jeel-bear” the name doesn’t sound so daggy.) The pub, which lies under the shadow of a massive, ancient, hilltop chateau, has a wonderful feel of history and friendliness about it and we’ll definitely be going back. It’s one drawback is that it opens only after 7pm, though that is when it catches the evening sun slowly falling in the west.
Our stay this year is drawing to a close, though we have managed to extend it for a few days. We will then go to England for about five days before flying to Hong Kong, where we will have a two-day stopover.
We are due to arrive in Sydney on flight CX101 at 10.55am on October 14.
Initially we will be looking for a place to stay for a couple of weeks. We shall also need use of a car for two weeks. Do you know of any possibilities? A borrowed car would be nice, but a cheap rental will do. We are confident we can find a motorhome to buy in that time.
Any advice (preferably constructive) will be welcome.

Dad

Happy the Birfday Mum.

2005-08-26T20:19:00.000-07:00

Just a happy birthday wish to our mum. The one and only. Marina Knowles.

Love Sam & George

Saturday - Phew!

2005-08-12T20:39:00.000-07:00

Well, I am definately back in the world of work and it is a huge culture shock. All I seem to do is eat sleep and work. I am sure it is the same for every one of you - oh yeah, except for those gallic galavanters - you know who you are!

My big news is that we have finally bought me a car. It is an eleven year old Mitsubishi Magna station wagon, in a tastefull burgundy colour. Naturally, I will post a photo asap. This will help me with getting to work as I currently walk a couple of K from Blaxland station every morning. In return for driving I will probably get a fat bum.

G is on the block again today. Picking up my car and doing all the NRMA and RTA paperwork used up some valuable weekday time for him, so I am at home doing accounts and housework today. It looks as though the hard work time will continue until the house is built. G regularly panics about money, particularly now we have made the incredibly expensive purchase of a 2nd car (nearly $4000). Of course the real cost is in the paperwork and maintenance.

Work is still very stressful. I have apparently taken over from a very gentle woman who would bend over backwards to help parents, children and therapist to do anything. This is regardless of inefficiency, personal stress, or downright illegality (ignorance being no excuse, I hear). The therapists are now stressed because I refuse to wipe their bottoms and the word "no" crops up now and again. The parents are also irked that they can't be let off payment for any little excuse or be rescheduled at the drop of a hat. I don't know how the business stayed afloat. My boss works her arse off day and night for a pittance, and everyone seems to think she should because it's her practice. Anyway, as catalyst for change, I cop it all over, but at least my boss knows what she is getting.

Enough of that. The dogs are all well and happy at the moment. We have had some cold and consequently crowded nights in our bed. Bean needs training as she doesn't move when you tell her to leave like the others do. I start rehursal for Mame next week and am trying to learn my lines.

I have to do accounts now, so love to all.

Manfi

The Knowles'

2005-08-09T22:55:00.000-07:00

The Knowles'
HI everybody
I am just checking that this thing still works
I have been checking daily and there has not been a entry since the 31st of july , just tumbleweed been blown across the praire.
I hope that everyone is ok
Mark

Happy the birthday

2005-07-31T22:12:00.000-07:00

The Knowles'
Happy Birthday to you
repeat.
Happy Birthday dear Tammy
Repeat first line.

16 last Thursday
Mark

rock dragon

2005-07-29T16:30:00.000-07:00

Hello, so you want to hear the story of my talking pet…so off I go. Hi I’m Xavier, I am seven years old. One day I went for a walk in the forest. Suddenly I heard a ‘Cooiww’ sound. I looked around beside a rock. I found a rock dragon. I took it home. When I got home I asked mum if I could keep it. She yelled “NO and get that bloody disgraceful creature out of my house!” Well I guess the dragon didn’t like yelling because it started going “plo, plo, plo” and with every “plo” it released a fireball. I quickly took it outside. While we were out there I taught him to speak. So that is how I got a talking rock dragon.

By Xavier.

Sugar

2005-07-29T16:04:00.000-07:00

Hi All, sorry I have been absent from blogging for a while. The photos I have just bombarded you with are from the production of Sugar (Some like it hot) that we did in May. The photo's are all copyright to Mick Bell - standing next to me in the group shot. He is a local photographer who luckily is the brother of two cast stalwarts, Margaret and Anne. Margaret has been cast as the eponymous Mame of our next production in October. I have been cast as Agnes Gooch, a daggy unimaginitive secretary who gets a fabulous makeover and a night on the town only to return pregnant and terminally daggy. It will be v. funny.

Work has been keeping me hugely busy. Going from 3 short days a week to 5 long ones was a culture shock. The school holidays never really happened for me. The systems that we thought were in place were not systems at all, so it has been hell! Susan, the boss therapist is a very gentle woman who talked me down from the ledge a couple of times. We are working things out between us, but it's not boring.

G and I are buying another car. Initially we have been looking for a vitara like we used to have, but in the last few days are thinking we might get a newer station wagon with fewer miles on the clock and better fuel efficiency for the money. Problem is that we'd know what we were getting with a vitara, but neither of us has much experience of different models of station wagon.

the house is coming along. G is laying bricks today. He is working from the bottom of the hill upwards in logical fashion. The footings have been done for a while and the tank dug out. It will hold 20,000 litres of water in case of bush fire. once the blocks are laid I think they can do the bottom slab. All these are terms I never knew before, but I have to keep them cluttering up my brain so I can tell people what is going on.

Time to go. Love to all.

Manfi

2005-07-29T16:02:00.000-07:00

This one we had to run around in a beach scene. The pose is my idea as I always fancied being an art deco statuette.
Manfi

2005-07-29T16:01:00.000-07:00

Here we are posing for a photo in our "stick dance" outifts.
Manfi

2005-07-29T16:00:00.001-07:00

This is a shot of the "sexy" chair dance we did. Incidently I am the one on the far right if you didn't recognise me, not that I could be mistaken for one of the teenagers.
Manfi

2005-07-29T16:00:00.000-07:00

This is the cast and crew shot taken at the tech rehursal
Manfi

2005-07-29T15:59:00.000-07:00

Here we are waiting to go onstage.
Manfi

The Knowles'

2005-07-27T20:31:00.000-07:00

The Knowles'
What happened to the blog i posted yesterday??

The Knowles'

2005-07-26T22:17:00.000-07:00

The Knowles'
Hi Everybody
Last weekend I went to the Penrith regional Gallery to see Tammy get Hung (not literally but in an arty sort of a way).
For the second year running she has entered a compertition called Operation Art , Last year her painting went on to be Hung in the Westmead children's Hospital.
So far this year her painting has not been selected but I am not surprised as it was the only one out of 670 paintings that had any political content (protesting the plite of our illegal immigrants/detainees.
I am trying to get a photo so that I can show you all.
Otherwise those of you that live in the Penrith area can see it for free for the next two weeks.
I was very surprised by the standard of all of the entrants and was will worth making the trip over there.
Mark

Easy money: Come and get some

2005-07-22T05:27:00.000-07:00

A remarkable thing happened yesterday . . . No, not the bombs in London or the greater catastrophe of England’s disintegration against the bowling of Glenn McGrath. I received a letter that, for the first time in my 65-year history, could genuinely have been headed: I AM FROM THE GOVERNMENT AND I AM HERE TO HELP YOU.
It came from the NSW Office of State Revenue and explained that it was responsible for administering the Unclaimed Money Act of 1995. Now that is the kind of Act I like to see on the statute book it should, perhaps, lie in gilded print alongside such other long overdue measures such as the Free Beer Act, the Lock Up Bank Executives Act and the No More Mention of Delta, Kylie and Nicole on the Front Page of the Sydney Morning Herald Act.
Anyway, it appears that under this Act I am due $1,453.37 in unclaimed superannuation being held for me by the kind and attentive public servants who are responsible for operating this admirable legislation. They have tracked me down to Springwood and are now waiting for me to prove that I am indeed the Ron Knowles who worked for IDG publications in the early 1990s – which I did, but had forgotten about on account of the brief nature of my spell there and the unrelenting tedium of the work there.
From Springwood to Cesseras is, of course, a long way, involving some delay. There will inevitably be further delay before I am able to claim and gather into my arms my errant cash, since the documents I need to prove my case are in storage in Springwood.
Of course, if only we had proper anti-terrorism laws which require each of us, before we are allowed to be at large, to have an ID card, complete with its biometric bag of tricks to track our every step and bowel movement, it would the matter of only moments before the money was in my account and earning interest.
“What price liberty?” I hear you cry. “One thousand, four hundred and fifty-three dollars and thirty-seven cents,” I reply.
We have of late been entertaining friends from around the world – well, from Canberra and Cambridge. Bill Powell, my best man of 42 years ago, finally fulfilled his threat to visit us in France and stayed with us for three nights in Douzillac. Now only a crumbling ruin of the man who has bedded the willing beauties (not to mention some of the sceptical ones), Bill ruminates fondly and amusingly on his memories these days – but what memories! They are more colourful and gratifying than most men’s realities.
We have also had a visit in Cesseras from Peter Downs, of the Australian Institute of Sport, and his wife, Dorrie, a teacher, a witty and energetic couple who demolished the commonly-held belief that Canberra was the exclusive haven of bores. Peter heads a department at the AIS that deals with handicapped people of all sporting levels – from the elite Para Olympians to the sub-Knowlesian types. He is also a great fund of Tommy Cooper and Morecambe and Wise jokes.
Dorrie is a delight, full of laughter and sparkle, who teaches children with special needs. She was not, however, prepared to treat Bill’s special needs.
In a moment of insane misadventure I committed us all to a three-hour canoe trip down the Vezere last weekend. The others took twin canoes, but Bill, Marina and I commandeered a three-seater, with Marina at the helm, Bill in the middle, and me astern, bearing responsibility for steering the demonstrably unstable craft through the many rapids, when I am unnerved even by the slows.
It was pre-destined for disaster, which duly descended upon us when we grated to a halt in the unseasonally, drought-blighted river at a point when the bed of the Vezere is strewn with pebbles that are particularly painful on bare feet, such as we had at the time. The only things sharper than the pebbles were the recriminations. Of course, they all fell on me as the steerer, since I had unreasonably responded to calls from the other two to “go right” by taking the canoe precisely on that course against all my instincts to go left, where the boats earlier behind us were nonchalantly leaping through like salmon eager to spawn.
Then Bill “developed” a pain in the arse, literally, and sullenly refused to paddle for long periods, for which only my Paul Robeson Sanders of the River performance could compensate to get us back to base and the salvation of a cooling beer at a riverside pub.
It got better then, though. A posse of young women riding bareback on fine horses splashed into the river, whooping with the excitement of being young and lovely on a bright summer’s day of 35C. Dorrie took photos, Peter rolled his eyes and Bill’s arse improved no end.
I have to say that my mood improved as reports came in about yesterday’s bomb outrages in London. I was visiting a friend, Barrie, who has satellite TV. Amid the usual panted statements of the bleeding obvious, gushes of received wisdom and maunderings of speculation a “reporter” shamelessly wielding a microphone bearing the Sun logo shoved it into the face of an Arab, previously identified as a hate-filled cleric on the dole, and asked him for a comment. The tall, white-robed, bearded Osama lookalike cast a glance of stern disdain at his interlocutor and responded: “I do not talk to representatives of pornography.”
Among the panic and paranoia censorship continues. The Guardian has declined to publish the following letter I submitted an hour ago:
Sir: It is surely beyond coincidence that during the attacks on the US, and more recently on London, the attention of our national leaders, Bush and Blair, has been diverted by the same man – a foreigner. On both occasions the so-called Prime Minister of Australia, John Howard, was visiting when the terrorists struck.
Is it not time for the patriotic journalists of the Daily Mail to publish a front-page alert to the government, warning in large type above a photograph of this sinister interloper: KEEP THIS MAN
OUT OF BRITAIN!
Your mother says I will get us all locked up. However, I have pointed out to her that the law making it a capital offence to mock Mr Blair or think ill of any of his cronies, sycophants and satraps has yet to get through its Second Reading.

Which Knowles are you?

2005-07-13T21:20:00.000-07:00

When we post, we all come us as the knowles, so you have to identify yourself, unless you are being cryptic.

Sam

The fast lady

2005-07-08T07:21:00.000-07:00

Just to let you know what she looked like, here's a photo of your mum tramping across the Pyrenees. That's her overtaking on the straight. The mountains are a little flatter now, of course.

Sorry to butt in, but

2005-07-08T07:09:00.000-07:00

I know this is the Knowles family blog, but as your Prime Minister, and I still am, you know, even though you may have moved far away, I wish to make it clear that I will not be intimidated. I say this because it is terribly difficult to be intimidated when mugs like you are paying millions of pounds to give me the best protection that our secret services can provide. Oh, sorry, can you scrub that last bit. My spin doctors say it isn't the proper thing to say.
Anyway, we are not going to let it change our way of life . . . I mean, would you let it change your way of life if you were being paid hundreds of thousands of pounds a year by mugs like you, promised a gold-plated future on company boards by your mates in the City and given free holidays in Italian mansions by crooked mates who run you close for the title of the world's biggest liar?
Let the Games begin, I say, and put me down for a gold medal in the dishonesty decathlon.
All the best for now. Happy blogging to the Knowleses. TONY.

:: We're fine...

2005-07-08T01:56:00.000-07:00

Thanks for the concern but we're fine here; didn't leave the house all day. Spent it cutting back the floorboards in the entrance hallway.

King's X is less than a mile from here and we heard a few sirens but that's all we knew of what was going down apart from the sudden loss of mobile phone coverage.

37 dead so far and expected to go higher and seven hundred injured. Biggest loss of life was at Kings X which remains closed today as does the entire tube network.

We will not give in....blah blah blah.... standing shoulder to shoulder.... blah blah blah ...... spirit of the Blitz..... blah blah blah.... our way of life..... blah blah blah..... first I would like to express my disgust..... blah blah blah..... ad nauseum ad infinitum.

Naturally the most unpopular questions occur to me in a way they seem not to to many folk for some unfathomable reason: What, after all, is the moral difference between chucking cluster bombs out of planes over suburbs and villages in Iraq and Afghanistan and leaving same or similar on commuter trains and buses in central London?

Listening to Radio 4 and the World Service we are still bombarded by the revolting and loaded sympathies of Yanqui commentators telling us how they are united with us in TWAT (The War Against Terror) and the interminable psychobabble of self-appointed experts telling us how best we can cope with fear and threat.

So on the one hand we are exhorted to welcome the sympathies and support of our allies who have lent us support in our terrorist enterprises whilst professing outrage at those who lend support to our enemies.

In the kingdom of the blind the one-eyed man is king.

The Knowles': July 2005

2005-07-07T16:22:00.000-07:00

The Knowles': July 2005
Hello everyone
I trust that we are all OK given the bombing in London?
Hopfully Jon can give us some more accurate news on what has happened. As usual the coverage here seems to concerntrate only on the Aussie angle
And that the bombers managed to miss Arsole Downers wife.
Mark

:: Ethel Rigby (1900-2005)

2005-07-06T11:10:00.000-07:00

Here is the death notice of Great Great Aunt Ethel, late of Tunstall, Staffs.
Courtesy of Sue Walker, Customer Service Advisor for the Staffordshire Sentinel.

Perhaps Mum can flesh out some more details of her life - surely the longest-lived in our family.

Testing in vain

2005-07-03T05:54:00.000-07:00

This just a test really . . . to see if this add image business works. What follows, I hope, is a photo of Marina on her big walk. If it succeeds, a thorough blog with photos will follow. DAD.
Well, it didn't seem to work.

:: A lot to catch up on....

2005-06-27T05:10:00.000-07:00

Sorry folks, it's taken me quite a while to get around to documenting some of the goings on here at Elmore St. Firstly, I have been laid low by a nasty flu for the past ten days which didn't do very much for my mood especially since there was still plenty to do on th house which I had to carry through anyway; secondly, my arm was giving me no end of grief but seems to have quitened down again, for the time being anyway. Enough excuses! You came here to see some action and that's exactly what I'm going to provide.

We have done a fair bit of planting over the past three weeks and we are no blessed with something resembling a garden. This is all rthe more welcome in light of recent weather here in London: a mini heatwave would you believe! Yes people, we have repeatedly hit the low thirties day on day over the last week (just as I caught a bloody flu!) and it's been quite nice indeed. This has, unfortunately coincided with some of the filthiest jobs the house has so far been able to inflict upon me but that's progress.

Things seem to be cooking over nicely on a number of fronts. Talia, half-cut on a bus, fell into conversation with a swarthy, long-haired, good-looking, Moto-Guzzi-riding, Italian kitchen designer and fell immediately in lust. The upshot is we have had several visits from both Franco and his Lambretta-riding mate, Andrea, to look at Talia's sketches for our future kitchen. The brief is fairly straightforward given the space involved and the budget comes to about £5,000. So we're looking at beech ply for our built-ins and a moulded concrete double butler's sink with drainer. We already have one of the finest ranges money can buy in our Lacanche Cormatin - a snip second-hand on E-bay for £500 instead of the RRP of >£1,700.

We can't wait to get that plumbed in rather than brooding in a corner of our would-be kitchen.

After we got through laying the patio we needed to think about we would plant in the beds we had created.

It required a bit of careful consideration and several trips to Columbia Road flower market in the East End. We wanted to edge the patio with some suitable growth that would adequately fill the spaces we had left and hopefully require little maintenance. The space beneath the sycamore was a bit of a poser as it is mostly in sahde and the tree will absorb so much of any water that can find its way here. Additionally, water will fall through the leaves onto whatever is below during heavy rain. We decided that this was an ideal place for a fern rockery. Happily, some kind idiot in our street was throwing out some failing pot plants into the skip that was parked opposite our house. Among the excellent finds here were four different pot-bound ferns and several rather nice terracotta pots that would grace our new patio perfectly. So here was a grand start. During an earlier skip raid I had found a quantity of wonderful large chalk stone which I dragged back to 24b with some effort in a wheelie bin. I couldn't believe it was going for landfill as this stuff cost £££ to buy at garden centres and the like! So it was rescued and recycled into our fern rockery with the add of half a ton of prime dirt, some manure and bark mulch thusly:

It was quite tricky positioning the stones. You don't want it to look like they were 'arranged'; the idea is to have them appear to have 'fallen' where they lie like scree on a mountainside. I don't know if we quite managed it or not but we spent a fair old time arguing about it. In the end it looked just fine. You'll see some photos of it planteed later.

I'm sure I've mentioned before what a rich source of skip finds can be had in this neck of the woods yet it never ceases to amaze what folk around here causally toss away in the full knowledge that it will go to landfill. A good deal of this glorious discarded wealth is generated from the council renovating most of their properties in and around Elmore Street and has resulted in my checking them on a regular basis for building materials and any other interesting oddments that might appear. A recent find was this rusty old cast-iron dog-box which promptly followed me home:

I knew exactly what I wanted to do with it:

A good coating of Hammerite and a lining of old roofing slate and presto:

The Great Skip God yielded up yet another excellent trophy the following day - a sturdy hardwood steamer chair made by Habitat. I could easily have overlooked it as it was looky pretty weathered and had been the unfortunate target of pigeons wherever it had been left. I don't know what made me pull it out and set it up but I did and discovered there was absolutely nothing wrong with it that a bit of sanding and some Danish oil wouldn't fix! So here's the before and after shots:

Now it takes pride of place on our terrace where I frequently sit on any remotely sunny afternoon and read a while.

Of course our terrace wasn't complete without a step and the best place for it was at the right-hand side after the concrete pathway. One small step for Jon & Talia, you might say.... First I had to build a foundation upon which the bricks could sit firmly.

This would need a couple of days to set properly before we built the step. In the meantime I had another delivery to deal with:

Yes folks, the parquet had arrived! I was pleasantly surprised although it was not exactly what I had been expecting. When I think of parquet I thinmk of school gymnasiums and small fingers of wood laid in checkerboard groups of five. What we had here were much larger pieces - 13" x 3" and a good three-quarters of an inch thick. It's quite beautiful with a gentle pinkish hue and will be a lot quicker to lay than the smaller fingers.

There won't be much point in using any kind of pattern with these as the rooms aren't big enought to display them really which is another plus in its way. The job will be hard enough without the extra fuss. So we've decided to lay them in and English bond design diagonally across the rooms which will have the effect of making them appear slightly bigger.

There were a hell of a lot of these cherry panels and I had to unload them by hand from the truck, firstly into the front garden and then into the back bedroom where they wouldn't get nicked or rained on and they could acclimatise to the room.

Coming round the mountains

2005-06-25T06:14:00.000-07:00

We have been out of touch because we are trapped in a Pyrenean paradise. Once we have fought our way out of here we will re-establish normal erratic communications.
We found our way to Argeles-Gazost via Lourdes, a city we have previously avoided on the suspicion, (wrongly, as it turned out) that it would be churning with religious chintz, quackery, fakery, imposters and importuners. We found a charming city and a delightful young lady who gave us directions in impeccable English. We also found our personal miracle – a hotel with superb mountain views in the centre of Argeles at only 28 euros a night. From our balcony, which overlooks the hotel bar and the central square (Place de la Republic), we gaze down the throat of the Gave Valley and into the snowcapped peaks of the mountains.
Argeles, much to Marina’s delight, is a centre for serious walking. Not content with having walked for six hours to cover 24 kilometres, almost all of it uphill, across the border into Spain on Thursday, she had to embark on a trek up the aptly-named Valley of Cascades on Saturday, a six-hour challenge amply rewarded with a visual feast of pounding waterfalls in rugged surroundings of heart-stopping drama. On this occasion, Ron was with her, an uncomplaining companion amazed at the staying power of his own knees and the endurance of his normally tender feet.
Today (Sunday) we have been for a relatively stroll (two-and-a-half hours) along the banks of the River Gave. Compensation will have to be paid for this, I fear, in the form of another vast hike tomorrow – probably to Samarkand and back.
Marina’s achievements on foot have been truly remarkable as we have explored the Pyrenees from both sides, tracing part of the 750-kilometre Santiago de Compostela pilgrims’ route between St Jean Pied de Port and Pamplona. Marina covered the first leg, timed for eight hours, in six. Ron supported her over the first nine or ten kilometers by driving up the route with water and cakes, often perilously near the edge of the single track which had that vertiginous edge-of-the-world feel about it.
During our times on the arduous pilgrims’ path we came across only one Australian, a wonderfully optimistic and determined young lady with a face dancing with smiles and eyes sparkling with a zest for life. Breathlessly she told us she had bought a bike in Pamplona just before the shop was to close the previous day and was now on her way to Santiago, confident of doing at least 60 kilometres a day and finishing the whole journey in the 12 or 13 days available to her. “Me mum’s in Melbourne, I was in Cairns, but I have been working in England,” she said, before dashing off, carrying her bike up the twisting, stony, tree rooted mountain path.
Only half-an-hour earlier we had come across a man with a donkey, Oscar, on the way to Santiago. He and Oscar had walked all the way from Lyon, he told us. As we chatted he insisted that Marina should have her photo taken with Oscar.
Marina is already planning her great trek to Santiago next year. Ron get pains in his legs just looking at the map of the pilgrimage.
While Marina has been gallivanting among gorges and granite peaks, Ron’s adventures have been largely limited to the table top, where he has ventured into unknown gastronomic territory, for him. Under Marina’s encouraging coaching he is starting to eat dishes that he would previously have dismissed as “foreign muck”, (though he washes them down with copious quantities of wine). There’s hope for him yet.
That’s it for now. We are going to listen to a choral concert in the local casino. We’ll be back in Cesseras on June 25. Mum and Dad.

Thought for the day

2005-06-23T22:21:00.000-07:00

Some people are like Slinkies...
Not really good for anything,
but they still bring a smile to your face
when you push them down a flight of stairs

2005-06-20T20:32:00.000-07:00

Cute pills? Never touch the stuff!
Manfi

2005-06-20T20:31:00.001-07:00

Who put that there?
Manfi

2005-06-20T20:31:00.000-07:00

Bean good.
Manfi

2005-06-20T20:21:00.000-07:00

Bean and Rudi playing
Manfi

It's me again

2005-06-20T19:47:00.000-07:00

Hi this is Sam with an update.

I am on my last 3 day working week and due to start my new job on Monday. After one week comes the school holidays so I will be off again. What a shame.

The birthday party was good fun, family reps included Mark, Caroline, Marty, Wendy and kiddies. Marty appears to be going great guns with his fund-raising, trash and treasure sales. So much so that he has run out of trash and is now collecting from us. We plan to go through the garage at Marsfield as that could certainly yield an abundance of utter crap that Marty assures me people will want to buy. I am also instructed to ask friends if they would like to load him up with some of their junk. My dancing friend Danny is moving to Canberra at the end of the year and so is a prime candidate.

I just tried to upload a pic of Bean and Rudi Playing. Hope that worked.

The new puppy is wonderful. She has not once had an accident in the house, despite the expectation that she would. She learned at once how to use the dog door (I threw liver treats through it). Unfortunately, she got sick with Bordatella (kennel cough) which developed into a full cold. I bet you never saw a cute puppy with snot lines bungying from her nostrils. Anyway, she just got better and now Tillie, Rudi and Bacchus from next door have got it. They are all sneezing and coughing. G has asked the vet for a group discount.

All this means that Bean is banned from Puppy school as Bordatella is so contagious. Of course we forked out for vaccinations for the girls before realising that the only thing that will stop them getting it is isolation. It's like vaccinating against a cold. By the time the bigger dogs get over it, Bean will be too old for Puppy school. They don't let them go once they have got their adult teeth.

Last weekend was Sassies party. I went along and once I had parted with the fairy booty and was surplus to requirements I took myself off with Helen and Audrey to the Winter Magic Festival at Katoomba. It was Auds birthday as well. She turned 14 and had dressed as a fairy. The outfits up there were fantastic, an abundance of girl fairies, goths, a very sexy Jack Sparrow type pirate, warlocks, a whole crowd of the society for ananchronistic whatchermacallits, and even a baby dressed as a teddy bear. There were food and fireworks and a skateboarding demo that just looked like another excuse for the older guys to take over the park. The next day, G and I went back up there with Danny and her husband Jason and we had lunch at the Carrington whilst a jazz quintet played. V. Civilized, tho' Danny remarked that we lowered the average age 20 years when we walked in.

Have you guys heard of Aspergers Syndrome or function mild Autism? It has recently been suggested that one of our friends has been living with this. I don't like to bust open their privacy before the formal diagnosis, but it is something I have suspected ever since I heard of it. Look it up and you will know immediately who I am talking about. Makes the rest of us relieved that there is a reason for certain behaviours. Sorry for being cryptic.

Glenbrook players are holding auditions for Auntie Mame soon, so I will get to be in another play. Don't know which part to try for, but we are going to watch the video at Danny's in a couple of weeks. That will give us a better idea.

Better go and do some work.

Love Sam

:: Midnight Moan

2005-06-15T02:46:00.000-07:00

It's 2:30 in the morning and I can't sleep. I have developed one of my industrial strength flues and my nightly throbbing right arm is also doing its thing. I feel like I'm falling apart. I can't see me doing the labouring on another place after this, even if my arm does recover. Talia's been on at me to see a doctor but that'll just be a frustrating waste of my time - what are they going to tell me that I don't already know? "Er, I advise that you stop labouring and rest your arm, Mr. Knowles." That, after a two hour wait in some mangey London clinic. Well I can't not use my right arm and even if I rest it for some weeks, after I start again with the heavy work the throbbing and pins and needles will come straight back. How do labourers do this work on a daily basis? Do they just get used to it or do they have better limbs? Being able to breathe through my nose again would also be a rare treat as well as a full night's rest.

I'd like to take the time to tell you about the many things we've achieved here since the patio but in half an hour or so my arm will have stopped fizzing long enough for me to get back to sleep. I'm way behind in my blogging and have developed a wicked backlog of phone photos to add to the collection. It'll all just have to keep as noddy-blinkums is my top priority.

:: All kinds of progress

2005-06-11T18:12:00.000-07:00

Things are advancing nicely for us here in Elmore St. we have enjoyed a steady stream of progress and several items of good news. Yesterday my months of nagging various faceless folk at Islington Council paid dividends with the arrival of a letter from their valuer offering us the opportunity to purchase jointly the freehold with our upstairs neighbour Ramesh. We have been trying to get some movement on this since we moved in and had expected to pay at least several thousand pounds per apartment. We were therefore delighted to see that we are jointly asked to pay £1,650 to own the property, instead of 'owning' a 70 years' lease. Soon we shall be joint freeholders of 24 Elmore St., Islington and the value of the property will rise exponentially.

In other good news we have discovered that a wall we are desperate to remove is not structural, as we had been lead to believe. One of our neighbours, Frank at number 28, came by for a chat and in the course of our conversation insisted that in his house there are large 8' wide doors where our wall is. Furthermore, this was the original design of these houses up and down the street. Our wall is visibly a later addition - a stud wall partition added in the 1970s - where the 'withdrawing-room' doors were once situated.

The removal of this wall is further complicated by the fact of its having the gas metre mounted upon it. Sure enough, before we can even think about demolishing we have to relocate the gas metre - not just of our maisonette but also that of our upstairs neighbour as well! Unfortunately the gas supply is piped vertically up the wall to our metre and throught the ceiling into Ramesh's apartment where it meets his. This makes the whole thing quite a headache as you might imagine, particularly given that the vagaries of government privatisation over the years now leads to a situation where a job such as this requires the completion of a 30 page form and a staggered series of possible dates for work to be carried out by at least three different sets of certificated workman at hideous expense. When we finally did get a quote from the bureaucrats known as Transco we were appalled to discover that they planned to charge us £1,253 to relocate the gas metres on an exterior wall at the front of the premises. Since Transco ajudge themselves responsible solely for the supply of gas from the street to the premises, any necessary reisntatement work back fom the metres to any appliances would have to be carried out by a Corgi registered gas plumber hired by ourselves at cost - including those of Ramesh whom we can't expect to pay for work he doesn't need carying out and which he is generously allowing us to perform. In short, a Nightmare on Elmore Street. Or at least so we thought.

Slacking Off

2005-06-10T18:50:00.000-07:00

This is me writing blog when I should be preparing for tonights party.

This morning we phoned our old mate Jodi in UK. Mostly because we remembered to do so. We had a great chat before she had to go to bed and we had to get on with our preparations.

Bean has canine cough, which sounds bad, but is similar to what we all get in winter. You just ride it out unless her phlegm turns green. Consequently she is dressed in the best wardrobe the discount stores can provide in her size (XL) - and she's just a pup! we also syringe cough medicine into her mouth a couple of times a day. Apart from the coughing she is perky, happy and eating, so no worrying signs there. Tillie still thinks she is a sore trial, but Rudi is now happy to play games with her as long as she plays the "rabbit" to Rudi's "savage wolf".

G is v. busy this morning. He has bought many sausages - enough for the partygoers for the next six parties no doubt. Now he has turned his hand to the essentials, being enough outdoor lighting to confuse Mascot and the hanging of the tarps. I begged him to vacume while I was out, but he didn't have time and now I will have to hide.

Better go and clean something or I will look like a slacker.

Cheers
Sam

Who knicked our car?

2005-06-09T08:26:00.000-07:00

Who knicked our car? Oh no! It has all the documents in the glove compartment. We won’t even know who to inform about the theft.
You would have thought that it would be safe in a carpark of a French do-it-yourself superstore – even from a do-it-yourself thief. But we happen to have chosen one of those vast shopping malls which only Texas, Wyoming and Languedoc are big enough to accommodate.
We had bought our paint in combinations of white and blue, which I had played a spectator’s part in purchasing, nodding sagely at Marina’s questions and mentally calculating the area of the pine-stripped ceiling against the square-metres that those who devote their lives to writing labels for paint tins boast we can extract from the tiny quarter-litre container they have sold us for 8 whopping euros ($A13.60).
As we stepped boldly from the store into dazzling sunshine we found that during the 20 minutes or so that we had spent choosing and buying our paint the entire motoring public of southern France had decided to drive to Narbonne and leave their vehicles in the Tridome carpark.
We did not descend into immediate panic. We waited five minutes – until we had exhausted our first methodical search and taken note of the fine views of a sports goods superstore, a Carrefour built like a hangar for the Eurobus and a vast warehouse that appeared to be reserved for mountaineering equipment, including the mountains themselves.
With growing irritation we began accusingly to ask one another why neither of us had taken note of the number of the parking bay where we had left our leased Renault, but we tried to comfort ourselves with the thought that no thief would steal a car of such an instantly recognisable, vomit-inducing blue hue with bright red number plates.
Everywhere we turned, lines of cars stretched to the horizon like prairie wheat fields. But not one was flecked with that telltale nauseating bleu. We marched up and down the ranks of vehicles, stepping over exhausted, limp forms lying amidst the wreckage of lamps, wiring, plasterboard, splintered sheets of plywood and plastic-wrapping – similar lost DIY shopping souls whose strength had ebbed in their vain search – and still we could see no trace of the missing Modus.
Just as I was mentally rehearsing my explanation to the police and my application to the travel insurance mugs who have trusted us to come through nine months of French life unscathed, Marina pointed to the Cathedral-like exit and asked: “This was where we went in, wasn’t it?”
I looked. Above the doors I read the solemn sans serif sign – Tridome Nord. That was surely impossible, or was the heat getting to us? We had entered, I remembered, at Tridome Sud. It appeared we and our car were poles apart.
Keeping the sun over our left shoulder and the big hand of our watches on 12, we trekked across the vast concrete plain until we came to the south, where we spotted our turquoise tearaway swapping number plates with a delinquent Jaguar that was sporting a suggestive leer. Just in the nick of time!
It seems we need a compass when we go shopping these days.

:: Happy Birthday Sam!

2005-06-08T13:39:00.000-07:00

Hope you have a really topping day and that all is well with George, Bean and the rest of the family.
After next year you start counting backwards.....

That distressed look

2005-06-06T13:02:00.000-07:00

Having failed miserably to paint a ceiling satisfactorily and turned over the task to your mother, I can only marvel at the magnificent efforts and accomplishments of Jonathan and Talia in constructing their patio garden – an achievement of hand and brain that I could never hope to match. Just as I quietly admire Mark’s mastery of the intestinal intricacies of sewing machines, I am agog at the concrete cross-stitching that J and T managed so patiently.
It is so satisfying, I imagine. And I can only imagine. I just wonder about tackling big jobs like these. The vast construction army on the march at Barcelona’s cathedral is looking at a 200-year timeframe at present rates of progress, which makes you think about the achievements of all those masons, carpenters, wainrights, stemrights, grungerights, blair-rights, undiestootights and other minions who could knock one up for you, Lord Almighty guv, in 20 years or so, given good weather and a non-stroppy workforce, not like today’s mob what go on strike at a drop of a chapeau or a worried glance from the foreman, who happens to be getting a bit of extra by selling off half of the site’s sand to his uncle wot’s in the trade.
We are engaged, as I have indicated, in a little home improvement in Cesseras. This involves bringing a little lightness of being to the ground floor by painting the pine-strip ceiling what your mother termed “a distressed white”. So far the only thing that is a distressed white is me. My initial efforts have left the first section what the critics (your
mother) term “patchy”, though I think cubists of the Bracques school would have liked it. She is down there now, like Leonardo remedying the faulty brushwork of a particularly dull pupil.
We are preparing for Marina’s big walk, though it looks like we’ll have to revise our plans and launch her effort well into Spain’s far north-western corner rather than just south of Pau, since that would have left her with much more than a fortnight’s walking, which is all we have time for, and we won’t even have time for that if she stumbles into a vide grenier or two on the way. Her latest purchases include a couple of vast Creuseot (Sp?) saucepans, which meant that, despite my pathetic painting effort, I got friend egg and bacon for breakfast this morning, which brought the local dogs sniffing and piddling near the door.
I do hope the unfortunate Bean will have better manners. We’ll have to see. I am wondering at the reaction of Aussie dog-walkers when they bump into Sam and George walking the newcomer and inquire: “What sort of dog is that, mate?”
“She’s an hermaphrodite.”
“Yeah? We nearly got one of them. Specially bred for ’unting, aren’t they? Is she a ridgeback irm-Africa-dyke or a pitbull irm-Africa-dyke?”
Dad

OOOH WHATS ALL THIS THEN

2005-06-05T23:23:00.000-07:00

Sorry everyone i am still messing about trying to figure it out.
I think i just did so time to suck it and see.
I will try to be a bit more creative next time.
Maybe something involving grand theift motocycle or homaphrodidic pets
Sh1t my life just borring i guess.
Mark

Bean

2005-06-03T03:57:00.000-07:00

http://forums.dogzonline.com.au/index.php?showtopic=28734&st=0

today we had a phone call from the rescue centre where Bean (buttercup) is. There was a problem. She had gone to the vets to be desexed and it turns out she is an hermaphrodite. The vet wanted to put her down, but Jacqueline (the rescue centre owner) wouldn't let him. B has a tiny penis in her vagina and has had a testicle removed from her abdomen. There may be another but we have to wait until she's older to look for it. If we leave it in it may become cancerous.

this did not put me off her, but G was worried about the health issues and the ongoing costs if she has urinary tract infections twice a year. Jacqueline has done a lot of research (which meant avoiding a lot of unsavoury porn sites). The link above tells us a great deal. From what I can see anyone who has had direct contact with an hermaphrodite dog indicates no problem. this is very encouraging, because I love her already and as far as I am concerned she is meant for us.

Wish us luck on sunday when we bring her home.

Love Sam

:: Crazee guys, crazee paving!

2005-06-03T03:13:00.000-07:00

Wow!

We did it, Talia and I. It took us five days or so and was by no means easy but it's done. Laydees & Jellyspoons - we have a patio. As you will recall from my previous post we had taken delivery of the sandstone and stacked it in the garden. Yet we were still short of ballast and the height we needed behind the wall to build the ground level to lay the sandstone flush on the wall and all the way back. So concerned was I that we were still too low I spent much of the morning using up my supply of half-bricks and assorted oddments, embedding them into the existing layer of ballast in a rough checkerboard arrangement to provide even support for the final layers.

I didn't have any other plans for these bits of broken brick and their volume would come in very handy here. I even tossed in a few quite large slabs of ugly cement pavers that we had lying about and would have had to throw into a skip eventually.

Late Thursday we took delivery of another two tonnes of ballast and we still had a tonne of builders sand in reserve to lay the stones upon. So on Friday I carried a tonne of ballast through the house myself and dumped it over the wall while Talia was at work.

I moved bucket after bucket in the searing heat - we had a mini heatwave of 32º, the hottest day in London since August 2003 and the hottest May day for 50 years - so to keep my fluids up I drank gallons of lemonade, lime & bitters. Once I had finished I raked it out and had another look. Sure 'nuff we would need the other tonne as well. So on Saturday morning Talia and I moved the final tonne of ballast, but not before the plant-hire guy showed up with a very heavy petrol-driven plate vibrator! We hauled it into the garden and give the bricks and ballast mix a once over.

As we began to think about laying the paving we considered the question of how to keep things level from front to back - especially since we had the wall one side to lay the paving upon but nothing to offer much support on the other three sides. Then we remembered that we still had five extremely heavy steel reinforced concrete lintels left over from the opening of three fireplaces. Who knows why Joe needed to buy all of these but now they were going to come in very handy. About the size of a kerbstone we decided to arrange these around the sides of the area to be paved and fix them in place with thick wooden stakes.

After we carried them through the house and out into the garden we laid them and ensured that they were level with the top of the wall. It took a while to level these and wedge them firmly into place before we could begin topping up the surface with sand before finally laying the paving.

It felt a bit like preparing to attempt a giant jigsaw puzzle as we spread all the broken sandstone pieces around the garden. We thought this would be a good means of ensuring we could select from the widest possible range at any one time.

To start with we looked for pieces with a good hard edge - although not too neatly square lest it should overly draw the eye and detract from the whole. We tried to choose the stones for the wall edge first and then picked the largest slabs for the middle of the patio.

The criteria for the wall edge was that they should be of even thickness since they could not be embedded into sand and that they be at least as wide as the wall to provide strength - preferably with a two inch overhang. As for the large slabs in the middle, the thickness could vary greatly as they could readily be seated into the heavy layer of sand we had spread over the ballast. Nevertheless, we needed to be careful not to use pieces of less than an inch thick as the stone could split and crack if it received a heavy blow.

From hereon out the job was very much about continually selecting and rearranging pieces until we were happy. It was a very tiring and time-consuming process as the large stones had to be constantly shifted about.

Eventually, apart from the many small gaps between the slabs, we had covered the entire area. It had taken the entire day and we were exhausted.

Bank holiday Monday and we did the whole thing again - in a way. After all, what had we done but identify where we would eventually seat the slabs?

The technique now called for us to start at one end of the patio with a bucketload of sand, spirit-level and mallet and work our way across lifting each slab the pouring the sand and packing it down before levelling off the seated slab then moving on to its neighbour and repeating the process.

We left the outer wall slabs as level as we could but had resolved to cement these into place after we were content with our work as a whole. At first we squabbled a little over what might be the best way to accomplish the entire feat: pulling off single stones at a time or lifting a lot off them off and onto the grass as we raised the bed to its final level. At first we did them one at a time but we quickly realised that this was not giving us a 'level playing field' as they say. We eventually settled upon moving three or four at a time of the same thickness so that it would be relatively easy to adjust them to the same final height. The difficulty was that the patio had no 'memory' of where the stones had been and when you lifted three or more you could easily find yousrelf wondering how in the hell you had got them together in the first place. No matter whether you remembered their position in relation to one another, they still needed only the slightest alteration of orientation before they no longer fitted as nicely as they seemed to before! Several times we were caught scratching our heads and cursing. Furthermore, you only had to pick up two or three pieces of the puzzle beofre you could no longer fit the last piece into the only remaining space as it had somehow shrunk by a centimetre. The only way was to keep banging away with the mallet and try to abut each slab very tightly to its neighbour. Naturally, this took quite some time. Eventually it looked like this:

Which was nice. But we weren't done yet! The following day, I used some of the remaining sand to mix up some mortar to fix the edge stones onto the wall and those at the back on sides onto the lintels we had laid. I used a one in five cement to sand ratio adding water and mixing until I achieved a smooth consistency which stuck to the trowel.

Now you can't just go mixing up large batches of this stuff unless you can work with it very fast as it 'goes off' in about half an hour after which time it's no good to anybody. As a newcomer to the manly art of bricklaying I mixed up about two bucketloads at a time and rapidly discovered how useless I am with a trowel - I certainly didn't have time to learn how to wield one effectively on this project. Much better to muck in with my hands and a pair of marigold gloves so that's exactly what I did starting at the left of the wall and moving along.

This is what it looked like after the first batch:

After I had mortared all the edge pieces I turned my attention to the interstices and the painstaking task of finding the right shpes to jam into the small crevices left over between the slabs. Sure we had gathered quite a few small pieces along the way but I had to 'create' a few myself with a stone hammer and by the process of 'accidentally' dropping larger pieces onto the concrete to try to achieve the shapes I wanted. Then I swept dry sand over the whole area repeatedly and packed them into the cracks with my gloved fingers. Now this is what I call a patio! 16 square metres of crazily paved sunbathed barbecue area. All we need now is 3-phase power and a liqour license and we've got one hell of a cool venue!

The next chapter will concern the creation of a fern rockery in the shade of the maple in addition to planting the beds at the rear and left-hand side of the patio. Also coming soon to a blog near you: pond-life and more crazily paved pathways. And remember folks: crazee paving, crazee guys!

Buttercup

2005-05-29T17:49:00.000-07:00

http://www.cordysrescue.com/?Dogs_for_Adoption:Puppies

The address above is to visit the site where my new puppy (formerly known as Buttercup) but to be rechristened Bean lives.

We went to see her on Sunday to see if she would be a good fit for our family. I have been doing a lot of dog breed research during the time when I would be working if I had any work to do. My favourite site for this purpose is glowdogs.com. For there I discovered a comparison chart rating dog breeds for things such as size, sociability, stability, good with children, shedding, intellingence, obedience and suchlike. Judging by this site, a foxhound would be great for us, having sociability bred in and aggression bred out (discounting foxes) during 100's of years of living in huge packs. They score on par with whippets for intelligence and some other things, but interestingly Border Collies (the other genetic input in our two girls) rate the very highest on intelligence, but the very lowest for being with children.

Poor G has been railroaded into getting this puppy to satisfy my maternal instincts. He wanted to wait until the house was built, but I fell in love with Bean on the internet and the more I found out about her breed the more convinced I was that she was the one. Added to my argument was that like whippets, foxhounds are not at all a common breed in Australia, so the likelihood of finding another was slim, unless we looked for a breeder. We both feel that dog breeders range from unnecessary to downright mercenary and would much rather rescue, so there she was.

We met her yesterday at Rouse Hill and I took Helen, Audrey and Aidan for support. It was totally unnecessary. Love at first sight. She is so cuddly - though quite heavy - she was passed around between us, snuggling right into our necks. She was so placid and sooky and when she met the girls they all just sniffed each other nonechanlently and settled in the back of the car. We had to leave her there for another week so she can be desexed, but as I am working all this week that is probably a good thing.

My time at this job will come to an end shortly. I don't like Parramatta and there is nothing for me to do at work. I have a job at Blaxland to start end of June. I will be office manager for a therapy practice called Skills for Kids. Everyone is lovely there and I will have full-time work with school hols off. Yippee! By the way, they already have a Sam there, so I will be using my childhood nickname Manfi.

Love Sam

:: A tonne of sand, one of ballast and two of sandstone

2005-05-26T02:45:00.000-07:00

Phew! I'm knackered and my arms hurt. Yesterday I trundled my share of three tonnes of building materials through the house and into the back yard. The fun started at 9:30 am when we were visited by a large truck with nowhere to park and a delivery to make. We had ordered a tonne of ballast (sandy-pebbly mix usually for concrete) and a tonne of builder's sand to aid in the landscaping of our rear garden patio. £32 per tonne is the going rate and delivery is free so that little lot set us back about seventy sobs. Thing was the delivery driver was not at all convinced he could use his swing arm crane to drop the goods into our front yard and for a few awkward minutes we were faced with the prospect of having it dumped on the road outside our house or else on the pavement, which would have swiftly led to trouble with the Islington Council. Notwithstanding, our driver thought for a few minutes and opined "I think I know how I can do this!" promptly turned the truck around, backed it partway into the only available parking spot and successfully negotiated the tree outside our house to drop first the sand and then the ballast into position. This was achieved only with my assistance insomuch as I held depressed an important black button on the passenger side of the truck called, mysteriously, 'slew override'. I am given to understand that it is thanks to slew and his overriding abilities that obviated the need for us to move two tonnes swiftly from a public thoroughfare.

Talia Prepares to go into bat.

So now we had the necessary means to top up the height of the earth behind the low wall we had constructed across the back of the garden prior to laying some sort of stone across the wall and, indeed, the entire area behind it. You see our house is pretty much north facing and so the sun at its summer best (such as it is in these climes) falls only on the rear third of the garden. This then is the prime position for a patio. And so we began to fill up bucket after bucket of ballast and trundle our way up the front steps and then down the stairs into our rear garden for depositing over the wall. Lord knows how many trips it took; I didn't count, but we were at it for the best part of a couple of hours. At some point it dawned on us that what we had thought was quite a lot of ballast was turning out to be not nearly enough! Oh dear, we were going to have to order another two ton of this stuff to level off the surface behind the wall.

Mmmmhh..... More ballast please.

Joe, the fellow whom we had engaged to build the wall with my skip-reclaimed bricks had offered us a different vision when we had discussed the project with him - one of which we did not entirely approve. He had suggested that we needed to add about a dozen bags of cement to our order so that we might pour a level layer of concrete over the entire area prior to laying any stone. This mildly horrified Talia and I although we kept it to ourselves. A certain Joni Mitchell song sprang to mind and although our little stretch of earth can by no means be thought of as 'paradise' it may well be as near to it as we are likely to own for the time being so the very idea of covering a third of it with everlasting concrete was anathema to us. Surely there are other ways? We felt certain that if we compacted the earth at the back of the wall sufficiently and added what was needed to make the ground level with the wall we would be able to lay our paving stones to sand. Of course there would be some movement over time and that should be minimal if we took care - who knows, it might even add some character? In any event, at least our way the stones could be relaid when and where necessary or, indeed, entirely got rid of at some point should another owner feel so inclined.

Our next thought was how to compact the earth behind the wall and so we rang a plant hire in Shoreditch. Yes, they had what we needed - a petrol-driven vibrating plate. I think I have seen these in use before. They resemble nothing so much as an industrial lawnmower and make a god-almighty racket as they bounce up and down compacting the earth. We were reassured that we would be able to drag it through the house and into the garden in addition to operating same before we laid our money down - another £37 odd. It is to be delivered on Saturday morning and, owing to the bank holiday, is not to be collected until Tuesday lunchtime.

Yet our morning's delivery was not the only one we were expecting that day. We have spent weeks sourcing a decent supply of paving for the patio and anguishing over style, type and budget. Everybody loves York stone and it's not hard to see why: durable, attractive, native and much in use in many grand English buildings - but the cost! To purchase from architectural salvage can cost up to (and possibly beyond) £70 per square yard! Now we have approximately 16 square metres to cover costing £1,200 at that price. We had planned on spending no more than about £250 on paving. E-bay, as ever, is an excellent source of comparison shopping for just about anythging you might want and there are a great many people with random volumes of stone in the garden for which they seemingly no longer have any use. The difficulty is that not very many people want to deliver two tonnes of York stone and list the items as 'for collection only'. Now as we don't own a car we would have to hire a truck and drive an unfamiliar route with all the stress that entails. I detest doing precisely that and will avoid it by any means necessary so that was emphatically not going to be an option. To cut a long story shorter we eventually happened across a supplier in Lincolnshire who would sell us quarried stone of indeterminate type for £10 a square metre. having seen a picture of the goods we committed and were expecting delivery of same this very day.

Talia had to go to work at five and were were informed our delivery was due to arrive some time after that so It looked like I would be on my todd except for the fact I had cunningly arranged for one of my strapping mates to return a favour. And what a favour! When the driver showed up I was horrified to see that he had no crane just one of those hand-operated pneumatic pallet movers and a lift on the back of his truck.

Shit! There was no way these were going in the front yard. Two pallets of stone were going to have to be parked outside the house and hand carted, piece by piece, down the stairs and through the garden.

This was also the first time I could have a good look at the stone and I liked it a lot. It's certainly not York Stone but at this price I really didn't expect it would be. It is indian sandstone of desert khaki hue flecked with quartz. The thickness fluctuates between one and two inches and the pieces are randomly shaped. We are going to have fun laying this stuff!

You will see from the pictures that our plan also involves a pond alongside the wall at the left of the garden. We have excavated this to the depth of just over a foot at its deepest with a shallow end towards the rear. This is apprently necessary to promote the well-being of any such creatures which might take up residence. We are not planning to add any fish or life to this pond other than vegetation and are trusting to nature to find a way. Surrounding this pond is an appalling conglomeration of concrete that some idiot supposed might be a good path. A fellow could crucify himself removing this and so it is to be paved over with jagged pieces of sandstone - only these will be cemented into place. With a building of a single step at the end of the pond path and up to the patio you have, in essence, our plan for the garden. There will, of course, be a deal of planting to be done and we hope to keep thing mostly English save for a few mediterranean herb bushes around the back and sides of the patio. Small clusters of flowers are to be encouraged to grow up through the sandy cracks of the paving and, at some point, I shall add trelliswork to the top of the walls for the encouragement of climbing plants and the extra privacy they shall afford.

I should mention that during the excvavation of the pond we discovered at the near end a midden of shards of earthenware bottles. These were almost wholly of a single type bearing the legend Mills & Sons, London S.E. and there were dozens of them.

This was a wholly welcome piece of adventure and for a while we became archaeologists, carefully digging around the larger shard in the hope of finding an intact bottle. Piece after piece emerged and we had a bucketful of shards before we spotted a different kind of bottle wedge in close to the base of the wall whose entire length we could clearly see. It was firmly stuck in the earth and we hoped that it was not damaged on the underside. After careful prising we had it, intact! A brown earthenware bottle bearing the imprimatur of the Malvern Mineral Water Co.

Some Googling was inevitable at this point and we were quickly able to determine that the Mills & Sons bottles were of unique design having a 'beehive' style mouth. They were purveyors of ginger-beer apparently and such bottles are by no means rare or valuable. You may be delighted to discover that there are such people in this world who concern themselves with old or ancient bottles tho' what nomenclature they adopt or name by which they go need not concern us here. Suffice it to say that you may discover much about such arcane pursuits at the following resource: http://aquabluemusic.users.btopenworld.com/ginger/page3.html. It was here I learned that "The ginger beer bottles used by J Mills & Sons are quite (sic) unique. They use the so called "Bee Hive" patent tops and made by Lovatt & Lovatt. The tops would have been used by the company to identify their bottles for collection and refilling. The "Bee Hive" bottles are not that rare, but are very (sic) unique." As for the Malvern bottle we quickly learned that this oldest of English mineral waters was first bottled in 1851 which leads to the following intriguing supposition: our house and its rear garden wall were constructed in 1865, therefore it is likely that the fellows who built the wall slaked their thirst on the contents of these very ginger-beer bottles and solitary Malvern mineral water bottle as they worked before depositing the empties at the foot of the wall before backfilling. Wonderful!

Pollinate off!

2005-05-24T12:04:00.000-07:00

“What’s that bee doing hanging around our rose bush?” I asked your mother. “Pollinating,” she said. The dirty bastard!” I roared. “Not in my garden, he doesn’t,” and I chased him off.
These things don’t seem significant at the time, but they can appear most ominous later. In my case it wasn’t much later, really – just a couple of hours. Marina, in that way of hers, got me to agree to replace some damaged tiles on the roof of the breakfast room, which at least has the advantage of being the single-storey part of the house. It’s still a decent fall, though, and I was soon asking myself why someone aged 65 and not yet certified was doing perilous things on the roof when he could be gratifyingly pollinating instead . . . or at least trying to.
The plan was to go out -- like an escaping burglar or a cuckolder as the husband arrives unexpectedly -- via the window of an overlooking bedroom, then make my way to the far end of the roof first, clasping the replacement tiles to slot them home and retrieve the shards of the broken ones. The first part of this operation was successfully completed, with the addition of a nonchalant wave to our neighbour, Madame Dupuy, plus a majestic folded-arms pose for Marina’s digicam, and I was on my second run, replacing tiles in the middle section of the roof when I ran, or rather stumbled, into trouble.
As I removed a tile there was an ominous buzzing noise. It bore the unmistakable message of fury mixed with vengeful hatred, much like a Bible Belt sermon, I suppose. It came from a broken bees-nest, half of which was clinging to the broken tile in my hand. Both legs were splayed and my left hand was flat on the roof, helping me to keep my balance on the slope. My right hand held the tile – outstretched. I was in a somewhat exposed position, with my face almost in the ruins of the bees-nest and my arse in the air, inviting a counter offensive from offended insects.
It was at this moment that Marina, unaware of my plight, lifted her nose from her book on French grammar to call from the patio, where she was sipping a glass of red: “If I want to say ‘before’, meaning before something happens, do I use ‘avant’?” I was still casting around for an escape back via the bedroom window that would outfox or outpace the bees, and thus preoccupied, failed to answer immediately in the calm, patient tone that is my hallmark. So Marina repeated the question, though this time I thought I detected a certain querulousness.
I regret to admit that my customary sang-froid deserted me at that stage. I shouted a profanity, something to do with pollinating stupid questions, dropped the tile and ran across the roof, whimpering in anticipation of a bee attack. But nothing happened. I survived without even a single sting.
Your mother has just pointed out to me that in my clod-hopping flight to the window I broke a number of tiles. “You’ll go out a replace them tomorrow, I suppose,” she said.

Chic, too chic

2005-05-23T13:12:00.000-07:00

We have just finished one of Marina’s delightful curries, dining on the patio, looking across at the sun-kissed view over the valley of the River Isle – and view framed by the bushes of red and pink roses in our garden – as the birds chant their evensong. At one elbow was the ever enchanting Marina; at the other was a delicious glass of red wine. What, I wonder, have I done to deserve all this?
Enchantment comes in many forms. Yesterday it was the Defile de Mode (fashion show) at the Salle des Fetes in Douzillac – our village’s answer to the world of haute couture. No kidding, but lots of “kidding”, as the local youngsters – gorgeous leggy creatures with coltish innocence and demure beauty – strutted and slutted along the catwalk in gowns, tee-shirts and finally two-piece swimming costumes. According to Marina, some of the local lads were modeling, too. It was an astonishing display of local organization, spirit and pride. Even the village schoolteacher – all spikey hair and secret smiles – turned up to show what the more mature woman of today should be wearing.
There were, of course, many locals at hand, plus some of the teenage lads gazing with stupefaction at their neighbours, girlfriends, sisters doing their Naomi Campbell bit. One old guy sitting next to me asked why Marina wasn’t on the catwalk. He said he knows where we live and even noticed that we have been having some pebbles delivered to the house. Now WE are keeping an eye on HIM.
We have had little time for socializing, though we made time to visit Isabel, an ancient and lively lady who was kind to Jonathan during his early times in Douzillac. She is now house-bound with rheumatism of the spine. We hadn’t seen her and thought she might no longer be with us, but, as we parked the car outside our cottage on Saturday we noticed a white head bobbing among the bushes of her garden, and, on inspection, found it was her. We were invited to call on her the following day, and we did. She’s 85 and as sharp as a tack, full of stories of her younger days, traveling with her Portuguese husband in Martinique and Algeria.
We have a New Zealand visitor coming to see us on Wednesday – a woman who is coming to inspect the cottage to see if it’s up to scratch for paying visitors who she may send out way. One word of complaint from her and she’ll be out on her ear! I’m just about ready for a whinging, pernickety pedant right who wants to spoil my French bliss.
I don’t want anybody getting in the way of the good time we’re having. Even the news from Australia is good. Mark informs us that Parramatta have beaten Manly, Samantha writes that George has buried Amanda Vanstone in concrete, Chris has enlisted Xavier as a flute virtuoso, and from elsewhere we hear that two Deakin University academics are advocating a ditching of the Geneva Conventions to permit torture of anyone the authorities suspect may have knowledge of terrorist activities and plans. I want to be Australia’s chief suspector. I have in mind to suspect a couple of Deakin deadheads. Like John Travolta’s mate promised in Pulp Fiction: “I’m gonna get medieval on your ass.”
That’s enough for now. Tomorrow I'll tell you about my rooftop adventures. G’bye all.

:: How to saw an antique French bed in half lengthways Part II

2005-05-23T13:10:00.000-07:00

Now I left you, gentle reader, with three sides of a bed joined together in anticipation of chiselling the fourth and adding some sort of base. Only then would I be able to sand and clean up the visible surface to complete the effect of a wonderfully old piece of furniture - an antique C. 19th oak bed effectively converted into a chaise. Once achieved, and graced with a bespoke mattress 22" x 72" and scatter cushions we would have a wonderful day-bed.

However, I quickly realised that I had blundered badly in Part 1. Although the tricky part of the operation - disassembling and then reassembling the bedheads - had been carried off without a hitch, the relatively straightforward shortening the lengthy side beam had tripped me up. You will recall that I had lain both side beam down for accurate comparison and used the shorter one as a template for the other. Big mistake. I compounded my error by spending the next hour or so chiselling a seating for the locking bolt without first checking my handiwork. Had I done so it would have become apparent that now the piece was too short owing to the difference in width between the forward bed-posts compared to those aft! This was the measurement I should have taken and which was required to correctly shorten the lengthy side beam. Now I was in the invidious position of having a completely useless beam for the task instead of one that could be shortened. How I cursed myself, but what to do? Now I needed an entirely new piece of timber, ideally something suitable and where would I obtain it in Islington?

After visiting a couple of the so-called timber yards at the back of nearby hardware stores I found something that might suit. I say 'so-called' because timber yards should properly be renamed pine outlets or somesuch because that's about all you can buy and that in only precut regular shapes and sizes. You can find the odd piece of mahogony (most probably the former dwelling of some soon to be defunct Orang-utan) which will set you back a small fortune and as a hardwood be quite difficult to work with. What I had found was a 6 metres long plank of pine which is (apparently) sold for use as part of door frames. Bizarrely they were not at all keen to sell it to me for any other purpose or in anything less than the full size. It was only by presenting them with a cheeky fait accompli - i.e. 'unwittingly' going out the back and sawing two metres off one of the lengths that I could have this stuff. It was, after all, what I needed: 5" wide by just over 1" thick and 6' long. I cunningly purchased a small cannister of mid-coloured oak stain so that my pine alteration wouldn't stand out like, well... a pine tree in an oak forest?

When I dragged the stuff back home I set to work checking (and double-checking) the correct width of the side beam and marking up the pine plank accordingly. I needed to rebate about two centimetres of both sides of each end after reducing the beam in length by about 8". . This would leave a central wedge of about 60mm running through the middle of each end. I had also to take care to ensure that the top of the beam would be roughly level with the front side beam for obvious reasons. When I checked this I saw that I would have to cut an inch of the wedge from the top of each side of the beam to allow for both the size of the slot in the bed heads and the height of the front side beam. Having done this the beam could be slotted into place and it fitted perfectly! Whew!

Now for the can of oak stain which went down a treat and made the pine look a lot more acceptable. In any event this piece would be back against the wall and underneath any soft furnishings so would never really be seen. . Things were definitely on the up, the bed was starting to look good again.

I had given some thought to the horizontal support for the matress and dismissed a number of possibilities on various grounds. The bed will need to come apart easily if I am to get it back in the house after all. I had earmarked some other pine pieces which I retrieved from a skip some weeks ago and they looked ideal. In length they were just over twice the width of the bed and so would yield two horizontals per piece. I had about a half dozen good ones so I could be certain of twelve horizontals. Again, the pine colour was jarring so I slapped on the oak stain and hoped for the best. The results were excellent:

Now I had to figure out how to make the horizontals stay in place without nailing them down. If I fixed them with screws or similar then I'd have a hell of a time taking the bed apart when it needed to be moved. Again my skip-diving adventures had stood me in good stead. I had fished out some regular shaped sticks from the internal workings of an old fire door when I needed to fill the holes made by mortice locks in the Victorian doors I had bought for the house. I had three or four of these sticks left over: . I sawed off even sections of about two inches apiece and applied a layer of wood glue and then two nails on either side: thus: . Once all the wedges had been applied to either side of each horizontal strut the bed was looking even better. Here's the view from the back showing all the replacement sections: .

The next task is to sand and clean the visible parts and to fix back in situ a few of the loose panels of decorative facing which had fallen off during the job. I dislike the dark patina on the oak which has been achieved with some sort of varnish. Some Nitromors, steel wool and a good sanding will give the whole a much nicer, softer look.

I'll let you seen the finished product after I've applied the old elbow grease.

:: How to saw an antique French bed in half lengthways in two easy lessons

2005-05-20T19:01:00.000-07:00

Hello Sportsfans,

For my next trick I'm going to show you how to cut an antique French bed in half lengthways, but first a little background. Talia and I have been attending a local auction house in Islington from time to time. We generally swear that we're only going to look but of course inevitably we end up seeing something that we simply 'must have' and before you know it.... Actually, what we've been doing lately to minimise the damage is to either stay the hell away in the first place or else put in a commission bid for exatly the reserve price. Usually the item gets bid up and once it goes beyond the reserve it's somebody else's. This way you don't often win stuff and you don't need to attend the actual auction itself.

So on Sunday we went to the Islington farmer's market - as is our wont - and couldn't resist a quick look in the Criterion auction rooms opposite. Talia fell in love with a 1940s style floor standing electric fan which just needs a bit of wiring. It's big enough to be useful on that rarest of things, a hot day in London, yet small enough to be unobtrusive. A snip at £40 and worth three times that restored. Commission bid #1. Hiding away behind some Persian rugs I found one of my favourite things: a 19th Century French Oak 'bateau lit'. It was in pieces and I checked them over to ensure that all the bits were there. They appeared to be all present so at an amazing £30 we had commission bid #2. It would look something like this when fixed up, although this is NOT the same bed.

The next day, last Monday, we were phoned by the auction house to let us know that both our commission bids had been successful! Most unusual in our experience but what luck. We paid for the goods that evening and arranged for delivery the following day at a cost of £40 - a bit steep considering we're only a mile away from the auction as the crow flies. We were both a bit pissed off that delivery had blown out the budget but we've learned that in future we're going to have to make other arrangements.

So when we took delivery on Tuesday morning I was keen to survey my purchase more thoroughly and put it all together. Talia had left for work so I was on my own. I cleared away the futon that is our temporary loungeroom bed (we're living like Pikeys, camping in our loungeroom while I work on the other rooms) and began to set up the bateau lit. It's quite hard to do oneself as the oak bits are heavy and you've no-one to hold the other ends. So I battled away and got three sides together when I realised, quelle horreur! one of the side pieces was from some completely other bed and about a foot longer than its counterpart. This wasn't in my gameplan and wasn't going to work dammit! I had checked all the pieces at the auction to ensure they were all there but I didn't think to check the lengths! Bugger! Time for a rethink.

I cursed and scratched my head for a while wondering what I was going to tell Talia when she came home. Last Christmas in Perigueux we had looked around for nice bateau lits in brocantes and junk shops without much luck. We had the crazy idea of maybe bringing one back to London for our new house even though we have major renovations to undertake. In our meandering we did see what appeared to be two single bateau lits in a brocante but the dude wanted to sell them both together and the price tag was a bit steep. This was a disappointment as we had never seen singles in this style before. Oh well, rien a faire.

Thinking back to this occasion gave me a crazy idea! Why not saw the bed in half and reassemble it as a single? I could perhaps make a kind of day bed that could serve as a really lovely and distinctive couch with loads of pillows on it. It would be much nicer than a chaise longue and easily double as a guest bed in the conservatory (when we build the bloody thing!). But how to do it without wrecking the whole thing? Was I up to it? I wasn't sure but figured I didn't have much to lose as it wasn't going to work the way it was. If I f***ed the whole thing up I would be £30 out of pocket - I could live with that.

So I measured halfway between one of the bed heads and made my mark. First thing was to cut the thick rounded rail and then through the cross piece. It took a little while as the oak is hard going. The handy Japanese style saw which Maralyn kindly bought as a present for me was just the ticket.

It came especially in handy for cutting the rough hewn tongue and groove joints which are the hallmark of this style of carpentry. Having taken the bed apart there's not a nail or screw to be seen, rather it was all held together with hand carved dowel nails.

It took me most of Tuesday to cut and then reassemble one of the bed heads. Then I had to disassemble the second. There's some evidence of woodworm, in addition to warping of various parts of the bed so I know I'm going to have a hard time putiing it together when I'm through. Hand cutting each of the joints was tough going though the hard and solid oak. By Wednesday lunchtime I had assembled both bedheads. They were much more stable and solid than they had been prior to my dramatic surgery. Next job was to cut the cross pieces to match. I laid them side by side and carefully compared and measured them, marking them with my carpenter's pencil accordingly. I would have to rebate both sides of the joints in addition to carving out a new chamber for the locking bolt after I cut the lengths even. Hard work for which I didn't really have the right tools and to which I was not looking forward. But before I began I assembled the parts I had already completed so I could motivate myself with a sense of achievement. It was late and raining so I was forced to stop work - besides, my arm was beginning to hurt after so much strenous sawing and chiselling.

(TO BE CONTINUED)

Really annoying

2005-05-20T01:37:00.000-07:00

G and I have read the how-to very carefully. The reason we thought we were alone is that if anyone has made any comments to our posts we can't bloody see them anywhere.

Also, we can't see how to find Jon's pics.

Love Sam

:: Quick How-To

2005-05-20T00:50:00.000-07:00

Back again,

I read Mark and Caroline's comment to George's post and I see that a quick "How-To" would be useful.

Here's how it works:

1) Anyone can post as the main user provided they log in with the correct user name and password. I'm not going to post that here as it will be published on the site and then any darn fool will be able to log in and mess with our stuff which we don't want, right?

2) So first you need to go to http://www.blogger.com and log-in using the user name and password I sent around last week. If you didn't get that mail or can't find it, email me and I'll send it to you. If you check the little box underneath [remember me] life will be much easier whenever you visit this URL as you won't have to keep logging in whenever you want to post. Best to do this *only* on your home/personal machine to prevent access by non-Knowles' and our nearest and dearests.

3) Once you've logged in to the 'Dashboard' you can post by clicking the blog name in blue: The Knowles'. Don't click CREATE A BLOG - unless you want to create an entirely new blog which will involve feeding another beast with thousands and thousands of words. trust me, you really don't want to do that just yet. One blog at a time, sweet Jesus! Don't worry about any other stuff on this page at the mo' - it's all just a distraction from the main event which is all about words on the screen - communication between me, you and them thar Knowles' and our kith 'n' kin. That's all we're here for just now.

4) So now you're in and you can see a list of posts with their date-stamp, edit button and title. Yes, you can edit previous posts but I suggest that we don't. Leastways only edit *your own* previous posts. That's the first piece of etiquette we should perhaps observe. If you make a mistake which you noticed after you posted or, for some reason wrote something which you wish you hadn't, then you can edit it in this way. But there should be no reason to meddle with any other of the family posts.

5) Don't bother too much about the tabs at the top of the page either. *Danger Will Rodgers* is my only warning! Have a look by all means, if you're curious but there's an outside chance that you royally screw the whole enchilada if you mis-step. 'View Blog' is entirely safe but the others are best left alone. I shall modify the template over time to reflect Knowles' sensibilities and to differentiate ourselves from the hoi-polloi if this takes off like it should. So if you spot any temporary weirdness from time to time that'll be me throwing a momentary spanner in the works in the name of style.

6) The lower tabs are safe for general use and merely let you edit previous posts (only your own please) and publish the one you are currently composing.

7) A word of caution: it is possible to lose the typing screen due to human or computer error. With this in mind I *strongly* advise that whatever it is you want to write, you do so in some other application - for eaxample, notepad if you're PC based. I'm an Apple dude these days so I crash a whole lot less than the rest of you but all the same I compose in some sort of text editor and then cut 'n' paste into the edit screen when I'm done. Trust me, there are few things more soul destroying than to extemporise 1,000 words of jolly prose only to see it disappear before your very eyes. You *won't* feel like re-typing it and that's no good for any of us is it? So save frequently and save often!

8) The other little icons at the top of the edit screen are a spell-checker and an explanation of how to post images respectively. 'Recover post' will/may go some way towards recovering a composition which has buggered off somehow. This won't be necessary if you follow the advice in 7) above.

I think that's it really. Apologies if I've assumed either too much knowledge or too little - but nobody's born knowing this stuff so it's as well to be clear from the git-go. Knopw let's have some fun with this.

As you can see, I've posted some images with my last. You'll wan t to do this yourselves and there's a few ways of going aboout it. What Blogger is *not* however, is a hoster of images. Ultimately, they would have no control over the size or content of the images and it would cause of whole world of pain so they simply don't. This means that if you want to reference images in your blog posts they have to be hosted somewhere else. Now I have http://www.jonknowles.com and acool half a GB of webspace. It's not hard these days to get free or cheap webspace and what you need to do is to upload you images into that webspace (try to keep the file sizes down below say, 60kb and the width and height no larger than 400x300 pixels) and then reference it in the body of your message. This is done by quoting the URL or path to the image in question e.g. IMG SRC="http://www.somehost.com/images/some_image.jpg". Now if I had begun and ended that URL with a square bracket (<>) then the image in question would have appeared. If a blue question mark appears then something's wrong and the path is most likely incorrectly quoted or the image isn't where you think it is. Always rule out your own human error before you start cursing the dumb computer.

Ladies and gentleman, start your posts!

George's 2nd go.

2005-05-19T00:43:00.000-07:00

There’s something wrong here. It doesn’t seem to be working.

From George

2005-05-17T01:24:00.000-07:00

Hi All.
This is pretty neat, huh?

Well, as Sam told you, we poured last Friday and it was terrific. First, when the foundations were dug, we were praying for no rain as that would cave in the sides. As you might have guessed, concreting is not really an exact science. It's ruff-&-ready and clean footings is for books and them-there reading type people and stupid engineers. If you have not been told yet, I'm anal and I spent 3 days (and Marty & another bloke for a day) cleaning thee trenches with spades, trowels, a blower and a vacuum cleaner. The concretor's jaw dropped when he saw it and said that he can't pour concrete onto those foundations until he drops some dirt into it (haha).

After the pour, you have to keep the job wet for 7 days. That's when I prayed for rain. And that's what it's doing right now. I'm cleaning up the site preparing to brick up to the lower ground slab. The plumbed site toilet is a real hit. The workers are asking where the spa is. I did an Induction (WorkCover requirement) on the council inspector and he said it's only the second time it's happened to him. I'm a star!

Byebye for now.

Love,.....George.

___________________________________________________________________________________

thunderbirds are go.

2005-05-12T15:33:00.000-07:00

I just got a call from G. They are pouring the footings on our site. He is ecstatic. I asked him if he wanted me to come over with our last bottle of bubbly to smash on the concrete, but he'd rather drink it.

I'm at home again, suffering from malaise. It's so much easier not to go to work don't you think?

Sam

This time I did it in Word and copied it.

2005-05-11T15:57:00.000-07:00

Hi Guys,
Let’s try again. I am home taking a sickie today. It could be psychosomatic as my job is so boring and miserable as usual and Parramatta is a hellhole of lunacy and depravation. Of course I am applying for more jobs, but I’ve decided only to take contract work, as my tolerance for the workplace has never been lower.
On the upside, I only work 3 days a week, but we aren’t making enough money. Poor G is building the house and doing contract work for AGM on the side as he is convinced we will end up in the workhouse. Everyone told us that building is stressful of course, but that never stopped anyone. Grateful thanks to Marty who today is helping G on his day off as we are short of a labourer.
The production I am working in is going very well. The last performances are this weekend and we are looking at full houses. The director is well pleased, as the income will fund the next production. My role is one of four dancers and lucky for me it is a comedy. I thought anyone could dance if told what to do, however it is not so. Dancing seems to bring together all of my shortcomings – lack of co-ordination, the inability to tell left from right, the inability to follow the same musical rhythm as the other three and beat counting issues. Having said that, we are doing very well and getting the best laughs of the show. At the curtain call the girls all do a cartwheel, something I believed adults couldn’t do on account of their body weight being too much for their arms. So two nubile 18 year olds and Danny who is my age, but an aerobics instructor and the choreographer perform these 3 beautifully straight cartwheels. Then I skip down the steps and straight into a mutant bunny hop and it gets cheers of joy. Who knew?
Danny is pretty cool. She is a science writer and has worked for ABC radio and online. She is doing a Ph.D. at ANU on scientific research online – a somewhat circular and cannibalistic subject matter. The stage manager is a midwife who has done work in Dafur for Medicin sans Frontier. I know this because I google people when I’m bored at work.
The house we live in has been sold, but luckily we were asked to stay on as tenant’s, so at least moving is off the cards for a while. The dogs are happy too as Baccus, who lives next door would be v lonely without the girls as he spends almost every day here while his parents are at work.
I better post this now, or it could ramble on forever and be completely unreadable.
Bye love Sam
PS Has anyone given the address to Auntie Sheila as I reckon she’d enjoy it?

Really pissed off

2005-05-11T00:44:00.000-07:00

I just wrote a whole thing and then it went away.

Now I need to get my flow again.

Sam

:: I'll go first shall I?

2005-05-10T09:41:00.000-07:00

Whew! Today I damn near sanded my arm off - again! Attacked the stairs with gusto armed only with rubber gloves, sandpaper and nitromors. It's pretty tough going but the results are pretty good once you've cut through umpteen layers of paint and grime. Nitromors is pretty vile stuff and burns like a mo'fo' if you should splash it on your skin. This was all after I had already been skip-diving for old stock bricks and chalkstone slabs at 9:00 am just up the road. Some other geezer is having his house professionally gutted and you'd not believe what's getting tossed.

See, I built a wall across the garden last Sunday. I had help in the form of Oirish Joe, the brickie who did most of the tricky stuff whilst I laboured and observed. (Hey Joe! Where you going with that trowel in your hand?) To this end I've been skip-diving for old stock bricks for weeks now. In case you don't know, they're worth about a quid a brick to buy and even a seven course double-brick wall across five metres of garden will use up about four hundred of the buggers. Obviously I couldn't use new bricks as they'd look really crap so finding skiploads of 'em was great news.