Those that know me well will be sick with dread after reading that. Houseminding. Horror. I have a history with houseminding. A dark, violent history. A history filled with shame, blame, guilt and tears.

Something happens to me when I am left alone in possession of property. I become possessed by the devil; a domestic bitch who leaves dirty footprints and a trail of broken appliances in her wake. I don’t mind the house, so much as contaminate it.

Fortunately my current hosts and friends, Derek and Inés, are in far off Australia where where the internet cannot reach, or so they tell me. They will not worry because they will not know, unless of course they call, as they have done, but then I will do as I never ever do normally. I will lie. And later I will plead temporary insanity.

barragem do castelo do bode

I suppose I could blame my parents for leaving me alone to “mind the house” when I was 15 and somewhat irresponsible. I took being left alone as an open invitation to drive the family wagon to school, or to not go school, to invite friends over for parties, and/or stay out all night for several nights in a row. As a result of the last activity I lost my father’s beloved siamese cat in the first 48 hours of their inaugural post-retirement 6 week European adventure. Thus, I spent the next 6 weeks having to lie, and tell them she was ‘justfine’ every time they rang, or else ruin their holiday. I also crashed the family car, but it was just the first time of many for that and it’s really the cat running away that scarred me psychologically.

ribatejo light

I’ve now come to regard losing the pet cat as de rigeur for any houseminding episode. And it’s not all about me. Running away is the well-bred cat’s logical reaction to being abandoned by its owner. Perfectly natural. My sister’s cat always runs away whenever she goes on holidays. Actually all she does is hide inside the house (for several days), until she is satisfied with the level of response and the subsequent angst of both the houseminder and her owner (if the houseminder is stupid enough to have told her about it. I never do. Very unprofessional.).

Also par for the course is the breaking of appliances. My record was set at a dear friend’s place when in one two-week period I broke the dishwasher and coffee machine, melted the juice extracter and the food processor exploded, causing minor injuries. I took photos of the wounds I sustained and the shrapnel from the machine which was splattered in every corner of the kitchen and used the photos to emotionally blackmail the owner. Once I had their sympathy, I then told them about the other appliances. That is professional modus operandus.

scandanavian style cabins at aldeia do mato

My real strengths lie in destroying large-scale travelling souvenirs or family heirlooms. That Morrocan rug you bought on your honeymoon? Well, it’s a long story. I’m not sure what the bottle of turps was doing in the lounge room anyway, or why I thought an entire box of laundry detergent should be employed in the clean-up. As for the lampshade that was the single memento from your childhood summers at granny’s… Sorry about that. That’s as bad as it gets, isn’t it? It’s perfectly understandable if I’m never allowed in the house ever again. And that the 20 year friendship would be finished does seem justified.

a holiday favourite; chocolate pikelets

So, how’s my form this time around? On the first day here I tripped the power (no biggie in general, but in a new house the culprit can be a bit mysterious) requiring discussions with neighbours, and then unplugging everything… etc etc. The washing machine and kettle weren’t a problem on their own, but when you add the pie warmer and the bubble-bath frother… blah blah blah… The fun really started when I was preparing lunch. I’d just added the oil to the pan when the doorbell rang. Neighbour with stray cat: in a turn-up for the books, instead of losing a cat I was adopting one. But Wookie had other ideas about the new kitten and in the ruckus I shut the front door – locking myself out. With a hot pan of oil on the stove. Located another neighbour who showed us the way in, and I only had to break down one interior door to stop the kitchen fire from spreading throughout the house. No worries. Only one ruined pan. (Probably belonging Great-Auntie Amalia, may she rest in peace).

sweet little recent arrival

What really got my heart going was the oven exploding when I tried to light it, and the force of the blast throwing me across the kitchen floor in a cloud of fluffy insulation.

Things have calmed down somewhat since then, with only three trips to the vet and a great deal of vomit, piss, blood, shit and frothing-at-the-mouth mopping up, (but none of my own so far). I’ve got locking-myself-out down to a manageable once-daily routine.

wookie's new best friend

This morning’s pre-breakfast rampage could just be called ‘exercise’. Wookie took a liking to next-door’s sheep and chased them around the paddock for half an hour. One unruly little one thought it would be funny to shove its head through the fence and get stuck, so I had to carry it home didn’t I? And now there’s the fence mending to do this afternoon. Luckily it’s the first time and the neighbours still think it’s funny. That won’t last.

I have a sneaking suspicion that my reputation preceded me because Derek and Inés seem very well prepared. I’m sure I saw a rice-cooker and an electric wok here on previous visits, and now they are nowhere to be found. I’ve tried to use the dishwasher. But it was already like that, surely. I can’t break it just by looking at it, can I? So there’s nothing to worry about. Nothing to worry about, yet.

Ahhh… so much for a quiet life in the country…

If you’ve ever wondered what the difference is between a girl builder and a boy builder I can tell you right here.

I’m now set up in my friend’s garage for a bit of paint stripping on my old windows for the annexe. As I packed at home in a hurry, I forgot a few handy little bits, including a set of small paintbrushes. Rather than snuff around through my mates’ 100 boxes of stuff I remembered the fab care-package sent by a friend earlier in the week : a serious stash of cosmetic goodies, from Le Mer samples to herbal nail treatments and whatnot. Unreal, especially right now as I’m needing that makeup brush to apply a dainty layer of toxic chemical on my DIY project of the moment…

OK, so a guy builder could have thought of it, sure, but would he get away with it? Later in the morning session I felt the need for an emery board, to get at those pesky corner bits. As it happens I was given a rather large pack of them for Christmas, from another intuitive female who I’d never met but who obviously could sense that I was the tricky-creative-random-tool/emery-board-emergency kind of person. Now, boys, don’t go stealing the lady’s stuff. Get your own.

About these windows. I’m going to do a crazy thing. I’m going to ask for your advice.

Eyes being the windows to the soul, windows are the soul of a house.

And new windows ain’t got no soul, man! I’ve acquired some 40 or so windows and doors that have been ripped out of a chateaux in France, or fell off the back of a truck or whatever. They are gorgeous. Trouble is, big, old, single pane windows do nothing to help insulate against cold. It snows in my village. Snow = double glazing. The second most important thing after insulation in designing an energy efficient house is double glazing. So. I’ve decided to make old fashioned double glazed windows, as in this:

Massive job. Stripping 34 windows and making 17 boxes to contain them. Plus the windows most likely contain lead paint, and there’s only so much lead poisoning a girl can take. Let’s put aside the cost for a minute because the alternative is also expensive: new timber double-glazed windows for my place will cost upwards of €5000 or more than €300 a unit. So far, it’s taking about a week to strip each window, so there goes the rest of the year if I’m going to do the lot myself. That’s out. So how can I simplify what needs to be done, while still using the old windows but upgrading their insulation potential from single-glazing?

Anyone got any paint stripping tips? Does anyone really vouch for a hot-air gun over sanding? Know anyone in the furniture restoration business, who can strip them for a good price, and possibly stain them? And that someone will not be dumping the waste in the nearest river.

Maybe then I just make the boxes. Is this style of box the way to go? It’s been suggested that I could stick on a single pane of glass over the top of the existing with a 5mm air gap, but I can see condensation and mould, because the air space is useless if not sealed. Does the frame need to go inside another rough frame? I’m thinking not, (in a unusual instance of self-restraint). What are your thoughts regarding expansion and movement? Treat against insects? Treat against water penetration? Oil or polyurethane stain? Sill gasket, foil, or insulation between the frame and the stone surround? Chocks and spray insulation? Any bright ideas anyone?

Or here’s a third idea from a “get-on-with-it” type builder: don’t strip the windows back to timber, just prep them for more painting. And he’s got a point because in my all-white-Scandinavian-modern style interior, the window interiors would be white, and not stained timber. It certainly would be a travesty to have stripped the windows beautifully, expensively and toxically if only then to paint one side anyway… so, I put it to you, dear reader, could we work with painted timber windows for the exteriors? I’m thinking slate grey or chocolate brown. I like the idea for it’s skipping the stripping process, but I baulk at it from an aesthetic pov (not that there’s any evidence that the windows are made from a noble timber, or that there is any thing worth “revealing” from the paint stripping process). And, as pointed out by someone else – there will always be an apparent difference of the timbers of the old windows and the new boxes, which painting would sympathise. Is there any added protection against humidity and insects with a paint finish other than a oil or stain?

typical house from the 'aldeias do xisto' in this area

Painted timber windows anyone? Or does everyone want to remind me what a economically crushing massive overproduction this idea is?

OMG Portugal on BBC World Service! Just when I’ve been saying it’s like the New Zealand of Europe here, all quiet and inoffensive, there she goes all crazy and radical and free loving! The Parliament here voted on Friday to permit gay marriage in Portugal. Thank god they avoided the embarrassment of a public referendum, where the idea surely would’ve sunk like towels at a Sydney sauna. The economy certainly doesn’t need any ‘no’ votes at this point and a bit of garage tourism (gay+marriage = garage. Good eh?) could be just the sport. Them gay peeps with their disposible incomes and their gayness – mixing it up here in wouldn’t-know-the-difference, and golly-we-need-cheering-up Portugal. Yay. Just don’t try kissing in front of the police, advise Teresa & Lena, the lezzos who started it all. What kind of cops don’t like watching girls kiss? What the?

Speaking of puckering up – here’s Zézito. The too-cute-for-his-own-good prime minister, José Socrates (who wouldn’t vote for guy called Socrates?) is the man behind this radically democratic idea of letting people do what they want so long as it doesn’t hurt anybody. The bill still has to be reviewed by a committee, avoid veto by the super conservative party-pooping president and face another round of votes in the parliament. The papers are saying maybe a rainbow-coloured dance party in April. Standby for Dykes on Bikes on the Avenida da Liberdade. Vroom.

Back when my neighbour and I were more neighbourly we shared the following exchange on the subject.

Him: Same sex marriage blah blah. What I’d like to know is: who does it benefit?
Me: Them. Just them. No one else. 10% of the population. Two people in this village. That’s all. Practically noone.
Him: Huh?
Me: Well, here in this village it’s only 10%, in Sydney it’s more like 50%!
Him: Huh? Who?
Me: Yeah, anyway, I think should they say no. No to all marriage. Seriously, there should be more government control over who can get married. It just shouldn’t be allowed.
Him: Huh?
Me: Well look at the murder rate! Another one dead yesterday …”violençia domestica”.
Him: Er, yeah, ha, ha. I just think marriage should be just for one purpose.
Me: Yeah, like, for sex.
Him: No, no, we have sex outside marriage in Portugal. I mean for children.
Me: Oh, yeah, if a couple don’t have children they should get divorced. And no one over 45 should be allowed to get married. And those couples with fertility issues… Divorced. The government should make sure that everyone has children. Lots of children.
Him: Erm, no, I mean…I don’t know why we are discussing same sex marriage when there are so many important things they should be arguing about.
Me: I agree! What with the “Threat From Al-Qaeda” they must be more important issues on the agenda. Some people want to marry each other! Do we really need to even hear about it?
Him: Yeah! I don’t even want to hear about it!
Me: That’s right, they should just pass the bill and get onto more important things.
Him: Huh?
Me: They should just pass the bill and let us all get on with our lives.
Him: Yeah, pass the bill and let us get on with our lives. Right!
Me: Yeah!
Him: Yeah!

Discussing the issue with the Women’s Group Neighbours (plus one silent husband, he doesn’t count apparently) I pointed out that it was not about Gay marriage, but Same Sex marriage, as it is called in the Prtgse media.

WGN: Oh yeah?
Me: You know, for people like me.
WGN: Huh?
Me: You wouldn’t mind if I got married, would you? I need a wife over there. Someone to keep the place clean, do the cooking, warm up the bed…
WGN: Yeah that’s true.
Me: So if this bill gets passed I could just get married to a friend and she could come and stay. It would be great. She’d inherit everything, if I died…
WGN: Well, if you don’t have kids…
Me: Exactly. You wouldn’t want everything going to my terrible cousins…
WGN: No, of course, it’s good that you give it to your friend then.
Me: And she could sleep in my bed, and…
WGN: Woooah there… steady on… giggle giggle…
Me: But I sleep with the cat and you don’t mind. What’s the difference? Why can’t I marry one of the pets? That’s what will be next here you know. Like in America.
WGN: Huh? What?
Me: …and Australia, and England. Everyone marrying their own dog and stuff.
Silent Husband: Yeah I saw that on the TV. Yeah. It’s true, they do that over there…

I try to amuse myself. God help me if they ever learn English… or how to use the internet… I’m a dead man/girl/person!

OK here goes. 2010, post 1.

Strike me pink if it’s not impossible to be inspired/enthusiastic/full of heartfelt resolutions when it is still raining. Take a look at this:

It may as well be a graphic illustration of my biorhythm chart for how it reflects my attitude to the new year.

Resolutions huh? Well I say the world had better be making some resolutions about treating ME better this year. Because, hello, I have been putting in a hefty effort and all I get is RAIN and a headache or TEN.

Actually I can’t go on like this because my default setting is, actually, optimistic. I can’t help it. I know it’s not rational but it’s not my fault. I was made that way.

Take today, for example. It was good. Today I met someone in the medical profession who knows what she’s doing. Today, suddenly, I found out that I do not have breast cancer. This is a big achievement seeing as I’ve been banging on about this lump under my arm since, like, last February FODER-SE PORRA FILHO DA PUTA. Sorry, bad words, just slipped out.

Yeah, it’s amazing when the system works – you tell a doctor in the morning “I gotta lump” she sends you off to people with machines who take a look and they say “You gotta lump”, then even to someone else with another machine who says “yep, really gotta lump, you know?”. I say, yeah, I KNOW that’s what I’VE BEEN SAYING FOR ALMOST A YEAR NOW (and then I start telling the story about getting bitten by a mole, and their eyes glaze over… I really should have never said a word about the mole. I think that’s where it all went wrong. Retrospect. Don’tcha hate it). Anyway my lump has now received the recognition it has always wanted and it’s not breast cancer, and that’s the end of that. Yay.

Now there’s just the brain tumour to get sorted. See if I can get that done tomorrow…

I’m feeling better already, and lo! Is that the sun?

If only I could write something… but while I am not making resolutions I have decided, maybe, I should stop eating so many pastries this year. It’s not healthy. It’s not attractive. Other people are cutting the lard, so can I.

But strike me pink again if you can’t see the link between these ideas. No pastries = No words! And my other (not) resolution is to do five posts a month. It’s a conflict of interest! Something’s got to give!

Speaking of giving, here’s resolution #3 (I give in, looks like I am making resolutions after all): Earning a Living. There may still be some hope of achieving this through writing, especially if my dearest readers use the support button below. Look, down there, on the bottom right hand frame of the window – support. I promise not to spend it all on pastries.

Seeing as tinyartdirector is on holidays the pictures on these first few posts will not be up to the usual standard. Sorry. But at least, because she’s away, I can get away with calling her tinyartdirector, because I’m sure the owner of that intellectual property won’t mind so long as you visit his blog. Just don’t tell him that his 4-yr-old is working for me now.

And now for resolution #4. Building a house. If I can keep writing, earn a living, not spend it on pastries, get fit and healthy, I can then build a house. And if I’m building a house, it gives me something to write about. It’s a self -watering system. An automatic feeder. Recycling my renewable resources.

I don’t want you to worry that my posts will be this lame all year… There are lots of tasty things to look forward to like How to Order Coffee (with pics at the best cafes in Lisbon). There will be a Five Favourite: Museums. And lots of Day Trips… nice not-so-famous places to visit. There will be the usual gossip about the neighbours and the complaints about Portuguese beaurocracy. And building! Yes there will be building! So stick with me, dear reader, I can’t do it without you…

I’d like to finish with a shout-out to some of the great people I’ve met this year. Especially to the Other Emma in Portugal who introduced me to the life-saving doctor. And to Little Wolf, and the Other Australian in Portugal, it’s great to know you. Let’s build it!

I’ve been a Christmas fugitive for most of my life. For many years I was quite happy to go travelling at this time of year and I’ve spent many Christmases in unusual places and in a very un-christmassy way.

Once I spent the whole day on trains from Austria to Holland. That was a true refugee’s Christmas, watching and meeting other people who have disconnected with tradition.

Having an entrenched routine with your with family at home you can easily forget how many people don’t actually celebrate Christmas at all. However, you’d be mistaken to think that in Non-Christian countries it’s business as usual. My Christmases in Egypt and Thailand, while not being normal, were not completely tinsel free.

But now, after three cold Christmases in a row I’m having saudades for home. For the heat, for the beach, for the sun, for the champagne of Christmas in Sydney. And of course, for my family and friends. Perhaps that’s the purpose of this winter solstice holiday – the deprivation of the cold makes you need the feasting and family hearth.

There are good things about Christmas over here, of course. Snow would be one consolation; Portuguese food traditions like leitão (suckling pig) and all the sweet things are good… and this: I love the christmas lighting in Portuguese tiny towns. Sydney’s bling,  trees, santas and sprayed-on-snow never did a thing for me.  Maybe because it’s light until 10pm there, and dark at 5pm here that some pretty supplementary light is welcome and charming. Maybe it’s the combination of old buildings and the slightly retro-looking motifs that suck me in. It helps put some cheer in my christmas gloom, anyway.

Most elevating of all are the funky recycled decorations in Figueiro Dos Vinhos. Sometimes recycled art just looks like a pile of rubbish. But someone has put some thought into these. They twinkle, glitter and shine just as they should. Or maybe it’s the spirit of the concept that gives them life.

From my point of view they are giving the finger to the climate change skeptics I’ve been tolerating this week. I realise they are stupid, illogical or simply deranged,  but they still get my goat, because it’s my planet that they are advocating we ignore.

And here is this tiny little council, in the middle of an antiquated unfamous country, showing that they are enlightened, proactive and they care. And then it seems to me that the war on skepticism is already won.