Void Living

August 18, 2011
Sydney Morning Herald Opinion
HECKLER

At what point in an architect's career do they decide that void ceilings work? Who or what inspires architects to create one of the most annoying building features which do nothing more than wreak havoc on the lives of the poor souls who live in them?

My latest experience was a funky hotel in the nation's capital which boasted one-bedroom apartments with a separate lounge. It sounded perfect for a tired couple requiring refuge from life's challenges.

We arrived kiddie-free and in blissful contemplation of quiet time to eat, read, hang out together and relax.

The "one-bedroom apartment" consisted of a downstairs area and an open loft. Both areas shared the same massive floor-to-ceiling windows which required automated blinds to be lowered for privacy. Trouble came when we realised the blinds were the black-out variety, which meant lights on, even in the middle of the day. We had been assigned to a cave for the weekend.

When time came to sleep and our nocturnal paths separated, I was left with television noise which kept me awake even with the volume turned down low. In the chilly dawn of the next morning I was rudely awakened to the sound of a grumpy man tripping over the golfing paraphernalia as he tried to find car keys in the dark.

A friend visited Paris lately and booked a one-bedroom apartment for the same reasons as me: different nocturnal habits and the need for space. When they arrived, the loft bedroom was completely open, allowing for light, sounds and cooking smells to invade the boudoir.

When relatives with many children built a home which featured a void ceiling, I wondered why they would opt for heat, cold, noise and privacy problems when a normal two-storey home with separate sleeping chambers seemed more logical. I hesitated to voice my view as their super-fabulous groovy architect insisted she had it all covered.

At dinner last weekend we discussed this matter with friends. Everyone around the table had similar tales to tell. Who seriously wants to share the din of the downstairs with the tranquillity of the bedroom? What about privacy? What about relief from the snoring man on the couch?

Calling all architects! We need doors and walls! Open-plan living is a nightmare and when it extends to multiple levels, it threatens our sanity. It takes five long years to train architects. Make ''no void ceilings'' lesson one, semester one, to be revised constantly throughout their long journey.

http://www.smh.com.au/opinion/society-and-culture/living-the-openplan-nightmare-20110817-1iy52.html#ixzz1VKVZKhoy

The Lot of a Woman

Sometimes it is hard to be a woman.

First an ominous letter arrives warning me I am overdue for a pap smear. Of course I am. One of life’s most unpleasant medical procedures comes around way too often. Had you asked me, I would have guessed I last endured this procedure two years ago. Nasty memories remain even though five years have slipped by.

I grab the diary.

When the Shoe Thief Calls

Did I tell you about our shoe thief?

I’d always wanted a verandah, shielded from the street behind a hedge. So we built one.

Most days we'd leave our shoes there, preferring quiet entries and hoping to postpone wear and tear on timber floors. A family lives here and until recently, a very cute but yappy dog. That's another story, tinged with sadness.

When visitors come and go, a sensor light helps them up the stairs in the dark.

It takes a brave person to open the rickety gate, walk down a floodlit path, up the stairs and steal every pair of size eight women’s shoes om that verandah. Given three people share a shoe size, there was always plenty to choice during a spree which lasted over fourteen months.

At first we spent lots of time with our heads in each other’s wardrobes looking for the runners or the flats. We blamed each other. We argued amongst ourselves. One night the uni student returned late and left the birthday boots at the door. She was due at work very early the next morning. She didn't think she could be that unlucky. When she opened the front door, the boots were gone.

Then there was the time I demanded the return of my turquoise loafers.

Raised eyebrows from the teenagers. Perhaps the shoe thief did the household a favour that time. Our thief traversed the seasons, visiting often, stealing everything from rubber flip flops to stilettos.

When the cold snap arrived, I decorated the verandah with pots of cyclamens and winter bulbs. The verandah faces south and in the winter gloom, the pretty colours cheered our days and made us smile. Those flowers disappeared but the heavy planters remained. I replaced the flowers and moved the pots out the back. The plants vanished again.

There were nights when the outside light flicked on unexpectedly or the dog barked and scratched the door. We raced out, tore down the path and searched the street. We were jumpy and irritable, living on constant alert.

One morning, the hubby went out for the paper and there she was, escaping down our path: a tiny, wrinkled old woman, dressed in black and wearing a pair of our shoes. She carried a pile of empty shopping bags in anticipation of a haul. But she was unlucky that day. The verandah had been stripped bare as we became depressingly accustomed to our life under siege.

When she heard his roar, she took off and was chased by a man twice her size, his confused wife, a barking dog and the half dressed teenager who wasn't going to miss the drama.

On the footpath outside, she panted and wailed but denied everything.

We demanded proof of identity and dared to grab a wallet from her gaping handbag.

She went unpunished because her Medicare card was a fake and the police are too busy fighting serious crime to bother with trivial misdemeanours.

She may have come out of retirement during the past few weeks, because a friend in a nearby suburb has just lost two pairs of size eight runners from beside her front door.

Easter Gluttony

Easter is looming and it might be cool and damp outside. Chances are I will be taking in a film or two with the family - and I am dreading it already.

First of all, join the queue and chances are there will be only one person behind the counter, some poor soul whose job it is to sell tickets, flog junk food and experience our impatience.
I suspect many families will be converging on the nation's cinemas over the break.

If we are unlucky enough to find ourselves behind a large group, we will probably miss the start of the movie. How many ice-creams? What flavour? Who wants popcorn? Maybe we should take the large size because it is better value, but passing it around is tricky. OK, why don't we skip the popcorn and just get drinks. How many Cokes? Oh, you want Diet Coke? Excuse me, do you make coffee? I don't like that dripolator stuff.

I will try to curb my impatience, but my death stare will make the kiddies squirm.

Our turn will come eventually and I will ask for tickets. Then will come the interrogation. Do we want ice-creams? Many flavours; many options. Then it's the popcorn. Do we know the unbeatable value of the large box compared with the small? Don't forget the drinks, the smallest size served in a bucket large enough to quench the thirst of an entire cinema.

We will have only just had breakfast. I will decline.

Several issues will contribute to unfortunate blood-curdling holiday rage.

Where is the additional staff to cope with the crowds? In the US, some cinemas are entirely workforce free. No staff at all, with all tickets and junk food dispensed from a vending machine. At least we haven't reached that abysmal stage yet, although with the current system it may be a more efficient way to run things.

And what's with the junk food promotion? Look around and notice the national obesity scourge. Super-sizing and promoting rubbish food is so passe as to be ridiculous.
I suppose an express queue for those who want to watch the film without stuffing their faces is out of the question?

If I want to eat or drink, I am quite capable of doing so without the due consideration of others who wish to make a buck at the expense of my spreading girth.

Ditto the eager, smiling faces at the local service station. If I wanted three lots of sweets, or a crate of gum for the price of a single packet, I'd go for it. I don't need to be invited to be a pig.

Fleeing the Nest

Times are tough when you can’t leave the house for a few days without worrying about the ferals at home. But that’s what happens when the beloveds grow up a bit and you hit the tricky period when kids deem themselves too old to be left with a babysitter, but are not necessarily wise enough to understand the ramifications of parent free gatherings. Teenagers don’t give a toss when it comes to parental sanity or a peaceful relationship with elderly neighbours.