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?
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Walls Built: 1 Injuries: 0 (!)
And now for the weather:
Yes it’s a royal flush of sunniness; we are having a very proper summer and so far, not many fires. Being an australian I am paranoid about bushfires. The smell of dry eucalypt reminds me of the apprehensive summers in Sydney of my childhood. When I ask sweetly if the neighbours wouldn’t mind cutting the scrub on their land they snuffle and shuffle and say there won’t be any fires here, like they’ve had a message from god. Bloody hope they’re fair dinkum, or we’re all up shit creek.
I’ve built another drystone wall in the garden. I’ve finished the drainage on one side of the annexe and have started on the other side. I’m stacking up bags of lime ready for some serious wall building next week. And I’m on the search for decorative iron gates.
“Drunk-tired on heat, the pets are happy.”
“The rabbits have bunnies and the dogs have puppies
but the guppies just have little guppies.”
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Injuries: none… well nothing physical, anyway.
Life Satisfaction Index: down 18%
I should’ve known that a holiday would be a bad idea. But it’s not everyday you get invited to Paris by a generous brother, and we all need a shot of Paris once in a while.
It’s maybe my 4th or 5th visit to the City of Light but every time I’m spellbound by how beautiful it is. And I swear it’s getting more Parisian all the time. It’s as though every ordinary cafe has been retro-renovated to look like it was always a classic old French joint. Or maybe the rest of the world is getting more modern and bland and Paris is still as cool as it always was. Maybe it’s me who’s changed. I know I’ll sound like my mother when I complain about how expensive it is. Café Portugal: 50 cents. Café Paris €2.50! And to use my Portuguese friend Tania’s words “and it’s shit coffee!”. I’m not one for definitives when it comes to films or coffee, but I’m certainly used to the smooth, caramel flavour of Portuguese coffee. In contrast the french cup tasted like a burnt chop.
After waving my family goodbye on the train to the south of France I wandered dreamily around Montmartre without realising that the mobile phone that just died was the one with the correct time. My other phone was still on Portuguese time. I woke up to this ten minutes too late. Thus, I missed my flight home. After forking out for a new ticket, I bedded down at the airport, along with half a dozen other jet-set refugees.
Thanks to Ryanair, who will provide almost free flights for those desperate enough to want to check in at 4am, I am accustomed to an airport sleep over. Me and the world’s backpackers. I laughed out loud the first time I saw Stanstead airport after midnight. It turns into an industrial sized dormitory, with thermarests and sleeping bags lined up in orderly fashion along every available wall. Numerous times I have carefully selected a quieter, darker, sneakier spot, only to wake up sharing the bed with 50 others. The really professional air-slumber-party-goers carry eye-mask and ear plugs, courtesy of some airline, but at Paris Orly they were truly a cut above : they were watching tele on their laptops and portable DVD’s.
So anyway, I arrived home tired and emotional. The cat wasn’t at home. He hadn’t been seen by my house minders for two days. Panic. Just as I’m on the hotline to sympathy sister, he comes slinking in the door looking as fat and content as ever. Then I realise the reason he’s been out: the neighbour’s tom cat has been in and has pissed all over the house. It reeks. Mao not happy, me not happy.
And now to the dogs. Wookie has lost his voice from crying after being tied up 24/7. I appreciated his enthusiasm to see me but this was overshadowed by Babywookie’s absence. Where was my Babywookie? No one had seen him for 5 days.
Could it be that my neighbour’s threats to get rid of any dog of mine not leashed have been realised? According to my neighbour, all dogs are potentially bloodthirsty sheep massacring psychopaths (except his dog). Even the toy poodles that another neighbour keeps are lethal teeth-gnashing werewolves. I’ve tried explaining that in Australia dogs work with sheep and we also employ a concept known as a fence to protect our warm investments.
Another neighbour firmly believes that my over-fed, one year old playful pups are going to kill their goats. Goats: 120kg, Dog: 12kg. Goat: horns. Dog: bark. But forget logic and commonsense. “We know dogs here” I am told. They know maltreated dogs, more like.
At this moment I can’t help see the significance of the arrival of two lambs and two goats since my departure a week ago. Coincidence? Or motive?
However, as my ex-policeman neighbour pointed out, you cannot know for sure what you haven’t seen with your own eyes. And there it is. And I’d prefer not to know for sure. I’d prefer to believe he has charmed his way into a nice home a few villages away where they have taken him for an abandoned dog. Now that the truth is subjective, and I can choose what to believe.
Meanwhile I’m trying to occupy myself with the immediate reality. Wookie hasn’t eaten anything for three days. It seems he’s on a hunger strike until his little brother comes back. So I’m tempting him with things formerly forbidden. Cat food, fresh meat, vegemite toast… so far he’s only taken a toffee caramel, which we can’t count as any kind of victory.
I pacify my mind with sweaty hard work. I’m digging a trench down one side of the annexe to seal the lower part of the wall against water. My good neighbours, who are very very good, drop over to see how I’m holding up. We get talking about an overgrown patch of land that is standing between me and fire safety. And wouldn’t you know, they own it. “Want it?” she asks, in that off-hand portuguese way. “For how much?” I ask. And in a nice piece of circular symmetry she wants the same amount as the flight from Paris cost me. Either the flight was very expensive or the land is a bargain. But just like the truth, the value of things is completely subjective.
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