French Farmhouse checking.

The ladder to the loft.

The ladder to the loft.

 

I can still see the ladders leading to the lofts of old farm-houses in the South of France. Anyone who has ever been to France might know and acknowledge the lure of old farmhouses. They were being advertised over the world and in the eighties and nineties, it wasn’t unusual to meet people that in conversation around the fondue set, would casually drop, ‘we have bought an old French farmhouse, and we are going there each year now for our holiday’. ‘We are getting a bit tired of holidays at Coffs’s Harbour and its Big Banana!

Old farmhouses with lofts are littered over the whole of the French country like confetti at nuptials. Mouth-watering ancient villages usually have a crop of those old places on cobble stoned lane ways where horses and cladded hooves have carved through the centuries little gutters which during gentle rains directs its water to a bubbling stream. The picture perfect would be the local church.

Of course, those old farmhouses were often riddled with woodworm hence the first task was to inspect the lofts and attics. In modern Australia most houses have internal man-holes to clamber through into the roof space. French farm- houses had access through a little door outside at the very top just below the pitch of the roof.

After several visits to France and numerous clambering on top of ladders inspecting lofts we were so badly infected with French farm-houses we could only think of buying one. Talk about getting a bean in the bonnet!

You know when life has reached a stage when a total change might just give a much needed and restorative impetus to keep plodding and have a go at a fresh start, try something a bit different. There is a term for it that lingers forever once you have absorbed the meaning. Is it called ‘mid-life crisis? The year of the sixty fifth birthday would soon be nigh and with that ‘The Senior Card’ with getting old, so often the banana skin on the doorsteps of the retired.

Of course, change involves risks but so does not doing anything. The risk of middle age ennui and bitter regrets of things we wanted to do but never did, nor tried. What can be more exciting than trying to live in another country? We could not think of a more glorious way of warding off retirement than making this change and move to France and learn the Franco lingo as an extra bonus.

We had already tasted the magic of rural France, the poetry of the potted geraniums on ancient window sills, the endless lanes of plane trees winding around the grape vines of the coming vintage, and the village squares all alive with men playing boule with women around the water-wells gossiping about the newly born or the recently departed.

France is contagious like that, and as mentioned previously, we knew a few couples already who had taken this brave step, and had escaped the dreariness of routine with those predictable daily habits. Marital whiplash with boring squabbles are often relieved by making changes well before the onset of mindless routine with silent evenings before the TV with morbid partner and Dr Phil.

 

(A work in progress.)

 

After we decided to go to France, my wife suggested to stay calm and not rush hastily into something we might regret. She reminded me that I often questioned the wisdom of my parents migrating to Australia from The Netherlands back in 1956. “Do you really want to give up on all your friends and acquaintances made through the years? We are living in quite a lively inner city suburb, within walking distance of so many amenities, shops, libraries, a stately Court-House and with a handy police station for extra measure”. We were living in cosmopolitan Balmain at the time of the birth of footpath dining and cafes.

All that was true. I tended to go on a bit about our first few years after arrival In Australia during the mid-fifties. We, after a short stint in the Nissan-hut Migrant camp, which was a horror on its own after the joy of a five week cruise on the boat between Holland and Sydney ended up living in an outer suburb of Sydney.,

We had moved to Balmain when the apartment in Pott’s Point became too small with the birth of our two daughters, Susanna in 1968 and Natasha in 1970.

We already tried moving back to Europe during a stint as an artist between 1973-1976, but after a while the lure of my large family of brothers and sister with their spouses and children, the Australian bush, and above all, to have the freedom of having rusted corrugated iron roofs and weedy footpaths, the chaotic or total lack of town planning attracted me back a again. Those Fatal Shores by Robert Hughes, spring to mind.

To be followed!

 

 

The latest! A tumultuous night.

It had to happen. A new Prime Minister for Australia. He is Malcolm Turnbull. A rich man who doesn’t need the job but whose whole adult life has been driven to become a PM of Australia. An ex-banker and  top notch legal eagle married to woman whose family  is famous and highly regarded. If Australia had royalty, the late Robert Hughes of the Fatal Shores and world’s best known art critic and his QC brother Tom Hughes would both be Emperors. Our new PM’s wife is Lucy Turnbull daughter of Tom Hughes. She was Sydney’s Lord Mayor during 2003/2004. It is of course one of the oddities of our language and  culture that a Lord can be a woman. It is no wonder things about the English lend themselves to great TV comedy. Of course a female Lord is balanced by a male worker in a hospital  called a sister or even, if of a higher order, Matron!

No matter what, last night’s drama was played out on TV. Millions settled on their couches after about 4pm and followed the show. The world of Twitter and face-book went in overdrive. A secret ballot ( the second within six months) was taken after all the Liberal MP’s, ministers, backbencher et all filed into Parliament House. It was great drama. The triumphant Malcolm duly appeared as the victor on TV and gave it his best not to look too smug, giving due praise to the vanquished Tony Abbott whose whole life had also been geared to become a PM. He did, but was unable to see out his first term as PM. Not a good rapport card!

It seems he was unable to shake off his perceived brilliance as opposition leader and for two years as PM remained as if in opposition while being PM, continuously attacking his opposition and failing badly to come up with anything  in the area of making policies. He was famous for three word slogans;  The perennial ‘stopping the boats’, ‘stopping  carbon tax’, ‘leaders not leaners’ and of course, ‘ jobs and growth.’ Of course, the Westminster system thrives on adversity and invites attacking in ‘holding to account’ much more than seeking consensus. He had great trouble resisting doing things on his own bat. The bizarre Knighthood to Prince Phillip was a huge blunder.

No matter what, as a human being he must be hurting badly. His ambition to be seen as a good PM now denied. He too worked towards that his whole life. He failed in becoming a Jesuit priest but overcame by entering politics.  Of course, he did manage to get to the top job but his defeat last night an unimaginable and undignified knock-out blow.  He would know as an ex boxer.  In leading one has to take the people with you. That was something he failed in. He kept making ‘captain’s calls’ and when there was a spill and secret ballot six months ago promised to be inclusive. He said and I quote “today is the first day of a new and more inclusive Government”. As the weeks went on, things went bad. Costly helicopter flights to private functions. All and sundry dipping into allowances, hiring limousines and whooping it up in overseas first class travel with spouses in tow.

It is strange, but the present state of our Strata- adventure seemed a bit like last night’s political drama. The people were not taken in consideration. A decision to spend $40.000,- was a captain’s call by a single person if ever there was. Of course the spending  of owner’s money without them knowing anything about that was ludicrous. How did anyone think they could get away with it? I had a call yesterday and spoke with the NSW’s Fair Trade and was reassured that an new meeting has to be held and that all owners have to be informed of a decision to consider painting. After that, if the majority approve, the sinking fund has to have the funds to pay for it, either by waiting or raising a special levy. Oddly enough, The dept. of Fair Trading  named as Strata Manager  someone I never heard off. Is there now a new manager? What happened to the old one?

We shall see.

 

 

The Escape from Suburban ennui.

It makes you think when an seventeen year old boy escapes home and joins IS in Syria. He could be concentrating on his stamp collection or help dad prise out unwanted grasses from the front lawn, couldn’t he? Surely there must be ways to escape from our much praised ‘own home on own block’ in those endlessly anonymously sun-lit streets of suburbia, without going to that extreme.

I remember well my introduction to an Australian suburb after my parents in 1956 decided to buy a fibro asbestos dwelling in Sydney’s western suburbs. It was a devastating experience which, now at the age of 74, am finally accepting that it did happen, it was not their fault. I have conquered and overcome! It all came back last night when watching the excellent ABC TV documentary on writers/comedians/artists who not only overcame but became national Icons of art and culture precisely (bar for Robert Hughes)because of the dreariness and desolation of the Australian suburb. They escaped but used the experiences in ways that enthralled millions around the world for decades. There is nothing like a mirror being held up in front of us.!

http://www.theguardian.com/world/australia-culture-blog/2014/sep/17/brilliant-creatures-germaine-clive-barry-and-bob-review

It must seem like typical responses from the incorrigible Jerimiah Jacobson to finally have escaped England and rejoice in the sun and warmth that greeted Howard Jacobson in 1965 after sailing into sunny Sydney harbour. The gleaming whiteness of the Opera house a cheerful greeting card. He visible recoiled when ruminating over the dreariness and greyness of England’s skies heavy with sombre souls of past leaden Lords and hollowed out Timothy Thatchers. The cricket score on a Sunday afternoon, as exciting it could ever get. Waiting for the dreaded mid-night knock on the door. What Howard took delight in, the four giants of Australia’s own suburban making, escaped and flocked to Earls Court and at roughly the same time.

It just proves that changing and escaping from something might be an essential part of coming into one’s own. Even so, I do think that our architectural domestic way of housing ourselves leaves much to be desired. The fenced off and utterly lonely environment, the strips of bitumen snaking mile after simmering mile. Not a soul to be seen. Just metal boxes on endless journeys, but whereto and why? A Sunday afternoon, a solitary figure perched on a ladder clearing his guttering from errant leaves. I am surprised that young people can survive all that.

After every domestic murder, the usual responses; “Oh, such a lovely family amongst a close-knit community. We sometimes saw then and even said hello”! In the meantime some young people go to Syria and fight to get killed.