Six O'Clock Knock

Plumb bob. Post-hole digger. Circular saw. Triple grip. V-joint. Paint roller. Footings. Noggings. Spoken aloud these words will draw the renovators out of the crowd as helplessly as a moth to a bulb on a summer’s night. I tell you this with confidence because I am one of them.

My own residential labour of love was completed over a decade ago – insofar as they are ever complete – yet still I find the tang of fresh-sawn timber compelling. For eighteen obsessive months my beloved and I hacked and ripped at our little cottage. To say it was plain would be to indulge in the crudest of understatements: a butt-ugly eyesore is somewhat closer to reality. But to the soul possessed of enough imagination to see past the 70’s alterations – executed with all the sensitivity of a pig-shoot – it was a gem.

Slowly we lifted away the layers hiding our tiny home, and with that stepped into our local history. Thick skins of pink enamel paint peeled to reveal handcrafted brass fittings and silky oak frames. The reward for evicting the grimy nylon carpet and its vibrant flea community was a weave of satinay flooring in red, auburn and gold. In the kitchen the brittle and waxy lino held a prize altogether different: a lining of the local newspaper, The Chronicle, from the early 20’s, which occupied my evenings for weeks. Particularly revealing in its pages was the monthly "Vermin Count", which tallied the number of kills for troublesome rats, dingoes and "natives". (Yes, I’m quite serious.)

The traditional architectural style of Queensland is quite distinct. Evolving in the pre-airconditioned era, its aim was to maximise airflow and minimise heat retention, and to do so with frilly Victorian grace. The verandahs are wide. The windows are hooded. The walls a single skin of tongue-and-groove boards. Intricate fretwork panels above the doorways allow the air to move about freely.* Being perched high on poles makes a cool retreat underneath in the heat of the day – and somewhere to hang the laundry during a tropical downpour. In restoring our cottage I was single-minded in remaining faithful to this heritage. This architecture is a strong part of our culture and one of the few unique things we have; I hold it in a passionate reverence. So, naturally, the smile came readily to my face when our neighbours began giving their modest weatherboard shack some attention.

It’s not the first work they’ve done around the house; what they’ve done until now is perfectly agreeable, so I have every faith that their hours with the power tools will make our suburb a better place to be. My enthusiasm for their project waned, however, when I was woken by hammering on Wednesday at 6:05 am. Then 6:15 am Thursday. Then 6:08 Friday. Then 6:20 Saturday. Curiously enough, my sixty-plus hour working week has dropped cultural integrity to the bottom of my list of priorities.

* And the noise, too, for that matter. Amorous activity is a public affair in a share house in this city.