More home improvements

I've been wanting a heat pump, now, for 26 years. That's how long it is since I learned about them in first-year thermodynamics. The idea of getting much more energy out than you put in appealed strongly to the lazy freeloader in me - which, let's face it, has always been a strong if not dominant character trait.

But it wasn't until I came to New Zealand that I saw them widely advertised as a household appliance. We had ours fitted yesterday, a day before - in accordance with the universal laws governing these things - the weather turned cooler.

The installation involved drilling a hole through our wall. I was eager to watch this operation, because I wanted to know if it was true that the wall is, basically, made of polystyrene.

Turns out it's completely true.

There's a thin layer of plaster on the outside, then about two inches of polystyrene, then (allegedly, though I haven't actually seen this) a timber frame, then about a quarter-inch of plasterboard on the inside. Sometimes I'm amazed the house has stood up this long.

But so far, touch wood, it's doing well. And as from yesterday, it's significantly more comfortable, when the weather outside is either inclemently warm or cold.

House room

It's seven years, now, since I sold my last owned house in England. (It feels less. I still think of it as home, sometimes, even though I hadn't lived there for two years before that.)

It's six months since we moved into our first owned house in New Zealand. We've replaced the windows with good double-glazing, restored the garage to its proper use (rather than the half-assed workshop space so beloved of Kiwi males), and furnished it with some of our own things, but largely with stuff looted from the in-laws. The king-sized guest bed, the dining table and chairs, several other chairs, the sofa - all donated by Susan's side of the family.

Also about six months ago my parents, fed up with storing such of my possessions as I hadn't brought over yet, crated them up and shipped them over here. They took a while to arrive - I think they might have come via Somalia, among other places - but come they did, eventually. Then they had to wait for me to get off my backside and chivvy them through customs and biosecurity. I finally got the boxes home and unpacked last month.

The first thing I noticed, in unpacking - no, make that the third thing - was that quite a lot of this stuff wasn't mine. (The first thing was that the packages were held together with enough parcel tape to secure a small moon launch. The second was that they contained enough scrunched-up newspaper to constitute almost an entire edition of the Sunday Times. No wonder they weighed so much.) As in, I'd either never laid eyes on it before, or I had but I knew damn' well it belonged to someone else. Clearly, my parents had decided to retaliate by making me store some of their stuff. (We now have a Czechoslovakian-made 12-setting tea set, which is vaguely familiar but quite definitely Not Mine. I'm mildly curious to learn where I've seen it before.) And there's a medium-sized pile of books that my father may have thought I'd enjoy, and maybe I will, but he can't possibly have imagined were mine...

It's amazing how much you can fit into your cupboards, once you start exploring their innermost recesses and apply what you learned from Tetris. But cupboards thus filled are not - comfortable. They lack a belt to let out. They become dense, precarious places, without room to move and breathe, and accessing parts of the content starts to feel like outfitting a polar expedition.

And so last weekend, we decided to act on my mother's suggestion of buying a sideboard or dresser, to increase our total storage space. Another wriggle in the inexorable settling-in to middle-class existence.

Now, furniture is one of those industries that is much, much better done in Europe than it is out here. We looked, halfheartedly, for antique shops, but failing to find what we wanted, we made a beeline for Danske Møbler (which, we reasoned, must surely sell decent Scandinavian-designed furniture at exorbitant prices).

DM has a huge, modern-looking (if you're from the 80s) showroom in Mt Eden, which we saw from afar while house-hunting, and it was the work of - ooh, about half an hour - to find it again. It's the kind of showroom where, when you amble in, there's a brief period when you wonder whether it's supposed to be open, because there's not a soul in sight, and there is, wonder of wonders, no muzak. Eventually you become aware that the place is, in fact, staffed - but discreetly, like I imagine the public reception room of MI5. You can stroll all around, get your bearings, take the measure of things, before some suave assistant materialises at your shoulder and offers to help.

I like it. Maybe I'll go back just to enjoy the decent sofas and drink the free coffee.

In the end we settled on a beautifully scuplted, rimu dresser - about 20cm lower than I'd have liked, but it will fit the space under the dining-room window to admiration. It has lovingly bevelled edges and rounded corners, feels smooth and solid to the touch. One of the drawers has a cutlery-drawer-like divider lined with felt. I think it was maybe meant for a casino rather than a kitchen, but never mind, at least it's not green felt.

It's due to be delivered roundabout early April. (Why, exactly, does furniture take so long to make? Answers to the comments section please.) Until then, the cupboards will just have to suffer in silence.

Bye bye, blackbird

I was delighted, when we moved into our new house, to see that a pair of blackbirds were apparently nesting in the loquat tree on the far side of the garden. It's a large tree, towering above the nearby magnolia and apple, and it's leafy and dark all year round. An excellent spot to raise blackbird chicks, I thought. (Sorry, no pix. My camera is still non compos mentis.)

Blackbirds are an introduced species - brought over by the British, along with the chaffinch, song thrush, mallard and two types of sparrow, in the 19th century to make the place feel more homelike. It works. Every time I see those little critters in the garden, I feel a little more at home.

So I was none too happy when Susan found the body by the garden gate.

She didn't look closely at it, but I went out to do the dirty work. Close up, the plumage no longer looks black - it's a very dark brown, like burnt coffee. A couple of loose feathers fluttered in the air, but the bird was undoubtedly dead. Ants crawled across it frantically, as if trying to revive it, but I didn't give much for their chances. I could see no sign of violence, but then I wasn't in the mood for a detailed examination and autopsy; I suspected, and still suspect, one of the local cat community.

Unfortunately there's little chance of getting any of them to squeal.

Using a stick, I rolled the tiny corpse onto a newspaper supplement, wrapped it up, and consigned the whole thing to the rubbish bin. It's being emptied roundabout now. I haven't seen our blackbird since, so I'm pretty sure that was him.

This morning I saw a female blackbird building what appeared to be a new nest, in another, smaller tree, just outside our living-room window. If that turns out to be a good spot, we'll have a grand view of the family growing up. But I'll still miss that first bird who welcomed me to my new home.

Troubleshooting your Rheem Integrity continuous-flow boiler

1. Is the gas connected to the boiler? If not, what is it connected to? This investigation should be undertaken by someone with a functioning sense of smell, and preferably without any naked flames.


2. Is the power connected? Jiggle the plug into the socket a bit. Try plugging in something else, like a lamp, to test it. If you bring down one of your nice bedside lamps for this purpose, try not to scratch it on the wall en route.


3. Is it a weekend? If so, don't bother calling around gas fitters. Everyone in the Auckland area who has the first clue how these things work, also has better things to do with their weekends. Good for them. You can get by without hot water for a day or so.


4. Are you sure about the power?


5. Don't take the cover off. I mean it.


6. If you conducted the test described in (2), try the boiler again now. Then try running an extension lead out from inside the house. An ordinary, lightweight lead will do - it only has to power a bit of basic electronics, nothing heavy-duty. Connect the boiler to a socket you know is working, and try the hot water again.


7. It was the power, wasn't it?


8. In your bathroom, probably on the ground floor, there's a socket like those shaver outlets you get in hotels, with an orange LED plus blue and green buttons cryptically labelled "Test" and "Reset". When you press "Test", the orange LED should go out. When you press "Reset", it comes back on.


9. For no very obvious reason, these buttons control your boiler. If the LED is out, the boiler won't work, even though the socket outside appears to be turned on.


10. I know, I know.


11. If you absolutely must call Rheem:
    1. You should know, it'll cost you at least $100.
    2. A man will come and look at the boiler. He will be perfectly civil and informative, and yet somehow contrive to make you feel like a drooling idiot.
    3. He will take the cover off - revealing an incomprehensible mess of wiring that will make you glad you didn't take the cover off - and re-invoke the last few error codes by following a high-tech procedure requiring a retractable ballpoint pen.
    4. These codes will all say "Ignition failure", which means "out of gas". I think it's the only error code there is.
    5. Feel free to discuss the weather, sports, any home improvement projects you may have in mind with this man. He's perfectly friendly once you get to know him.
    6. There's also a water filter, which he'll check if he's feeling thorough, but since the water comes directly from the mains, it's vanishingly unlikely - under normal operation - that the filter will ever have anything to do
    7. That'll be $100 please.
    
    
12. If you need to call an electrician, that'll be closer to $200. For that fee, he'll tell you about the trip switch in the bathroom.

And that's the lessons I learned this last four days. Provided to you, the faithful reader, for free. Such are the joys of home ownership.

Home improvements

Our garage is not the most practical of spaces.

It's narrow - if you drive the car into it, you'd best be going straight. And it's short - if you fit the car inside and shut the door behind, there's no room to walk around the front. The door to the inside of the house is a rickety sliding thing that is, quite literally, hanging off its track by two barely-attached castors. And the door you drive in through is broken - it takes a good deal of dexterity, strength and, not least, raw courage to open and shut it.

The former owners didn't use it as a garage. The male half of the sketch, whom we'll call Malcolm, claimed it was an office - there was a computer and a phone in there - but I've since discovered that the phone point wasn't actually wired up, so I have my doubts that he did a great deal of productive work. More likely it was just a space to hide from the kids and play Age of Empires.

And he stored his kayak in there.

That's not as noteworthy here as it would be back home. Remember, here in NZ every able-bodied male between 15 and 30 is pretty much required by law to take part in some kind of strenuous physical sport on a regular basis. (Well, there is no actual law, but since most other activities are either illegal, financially impracticable or socially ostracised, it's near enough.)

This particular kayak lived a pampered life, roosting contentedly in an elaborate mostly-wooden frame constructed around the ceiling of the garage. The former owner, who described himself as "a carpenter", built this structure himself. I hadn't given it much thought, until the garage door salesman - a gentleman named Trevor - told me that the huge chipboard platform on which the kayak used to rest, would have to go.

Easy enough, I thought, and budgeted Saturday morning for the job.

Saturday afternoon, then, found me in the garage armed only with a stepladder, a stout steel hammer, and some ill-assorted gardening tools, admiring Malcolm's handiwork.

I have had occasion before to worry about Macolm's finesse as a carpenter. It has seemed to me that he subscribes to the school of workmanship that holds that strength derives not from engineering or design, but from the sheer mass of timber. Hammer enough nails into enough wood, holds this school, and you can make pretty much anything stand up. And indeed, in the kayak's nest, Malcolm had outdone himself. The structure I now found myself contemplating involved at least 12 separate pieces of stout timber and a huge platform of chipboard, the whole nailed firmly together and covered with a coat of glossy white paint. According to Trevor's instructions, about half of this structure had to come down.

With ease and grace, I removed the two and a half metres of cushioned steel pipe that the kayak's prow had rested on, standing my trophy to the back of the garage. Then it was time to attack the frame proper.

Initial skirmishes established that it was possible, with patience and strength, to remove a three-inch nail using nothing but the trusty hammer, plus some leverage that was best applied by abusing the hedging shears. I learned from experience that there is an angle, in prying nails, at which when the hammer inevitably slips, the handle will connect sharply with one's nose. With an unaccustomed burst of fellow-feeling for Oliver Hardy, I resolved to eschew this angle in future.

After about 40 minutes, I had removed all the nails holding the chipboard platform in place, and was ready to take it down. But how, precisely, does one safely move 30 kilos of MDF, in the approximate size and shape of a queen-sized bed, from above-head-height to ground level?

My first plan was to pull it out of its far resting place, and let the far end drop as the gentle dew from heaven upon the floor beneath. That plan was thwarted by the garage's sliding door, which perversely persisted in holding up one corner of the damn' thing. By now it's wedged between other pieces of timber, and it won't be budged sideways. Not by me, anyway.

Then I thought of standing below, and dislodging it using the steel pipe. I trusted I would have enough time to leap nimbly out of the way. But once again, the stubbornly supportive sliding door baffled my every attempt to move it. In some frustration I pounded on the bottom of the platform, to be rewarded with small, pipe-shaped indentations appearing. I left the pipe propping up the far side of the platform, reasoning that anything that changed the equilibrium could only be to the good.

I re-mounted the stepladder. The platform and I glared resentfully at one another.

After a few more minutes of this uffish thought business, it seemed to me that there was, indeed, a direction in which it might be possible to move the damn' thing. With huffing and puffing, seeing and sawing, straining and cursing, I manoeuvred it out of its stuck configuration and slid it back, further towards the far end, until suddenly the near end was loose of its support.

At the far end, the makeshift pole swivelled and tilted alarmingly towards the garage's huge window.

At this moment, it dawned on me that this was a two-person job.

Here was I, standing atop a stepladder and reaching over an eight-inch wooden beam to support half my own body weight in solid MDF. Releasing it now would, I suspected, result in complications to the tune of a two-metre radius of shattered plate glass. Going back was impossible; the only way was down. And that involved climbing down, while holding up the platform...

"Darling!", I bleated plaintively for the helpmeet. She, I realised, was in the back garden, well out of earshot.

"Help!" I yelled at the top of my lungs.

I dug my mobile phone out of its holster, and texted her: "Help!" From near at hand, I heard her phone beep.

I dialled the house's landline number. Surely, I thought, she'd hear that thing ringing even from the garden. That hope buoyed me through another three minutes.

Theoretically I could stand here and wait until she came back for the shears or the pruning saw; but she's grown very keen on the garden, and is quite capable of spending the entire afternoon doing nothing but grubbing out suspected weeds. Waiting doesn't appeal.

I could call our friend Matt, there's a good chance he's at home right now, he could be here in ten minutes. But even if he were available, that would entail a certain amount of good-natured ribbing. Besides, he said he was working this afternoon.

No, I'd started this thing on my own, and that was how I would have to finish it.

With the last reserves of my strength, I hefted the platform back up and shoved it back across the top of the amazingly supportive sliding door. The pipe-pole teetered.

Then I clambered down the stepladder, straining to hold up the unsupported corner as I did so. At any moment I expected the platform to twist and lunge for its revenge. To my gratified surprise, I achieved the ground without that happening.

I secured the pole, then gave the gentlest of tugs on the free corner. The platform, gracious in defeat, crashed harmlessly to the floor.

The rest of the structure, by comparison, came quietly. A determined attack with the pruning saw reduced the proud, stout beam to two easily-twisted cantilevers. It was the work of minutes to demolish the rest of Malcolm's handiwork, and consign the wreckage to the garden shed.

And our garage is one step closer to being used for its designed purpose.

Grass

We finally bought a lawnmower on Saturday.

I can't be having with petrol-powered mowers. For one thing, it means keeping petrol on the premises. And electric mowers, as a rule, mean trailing some huge extension cord around the lawn with you.

A push mower, then? Been there, done that. Never again.

The answer we found was an irritatingly-named battery-powered jobby.

"Almost as light as a feather" says the blurb on that page. At 36kg, that's some feather. I can only assume the idiot who wrote that got some bigger idiot to deliver it to her house. I didn't have that luxury: I had to lift the damn' thing into and out of the car myself.

"Battery fully charged", the salesman assured me. I was actually looking forward to mowing the lawn on Sunday. A fitting culmination to our endless house search, I thought. When Sunday morning dawned bright and clear, I was down in the garage, assembling the new mower and reading the instructions.

In retrospect, maybe reading the instructions was a mistake. They don't mince their words. "Charge the battery for at least 16 hours before first use, or you will definitely cause the mower to explode and level all non-brick structures within a 20 metre radius." I may be paraphrasing slightly, but I definitely got the impression that pitching straight in would void the warranty. Sighing, I put the battery on charge and the lawnmowing on hold for one more day.

Last night, then, I arrived home at 5:30 and broke out the mower, in the failing evening light, for its first run.

Our house borders on a small patch of common ground that's shared between the five houses in our block. Since ours is the only one of the five with a lawn - and therefore the one with a mower - the job of mowing this common patch also defaults to me. I started with that patch first. It's bumpier than it looks, and liberally endowed with weeds, but I think I made a reasonable job of it. Then emptied out the catcher before moving on to our own lawn.

By the time I got to that, it was almost dark. I worked quickly around the edges while I could still see where they were, then - trying to avoid the gathering clouds of insects, and navigating by feel of the bumpy ground - set to work mowing up and down in the traditional stripey pattern I learned from my parents.

I didn't have the heart to look at it this morning. Sufficient unto next Sunday, I figure, is the evil thereof.

Long week's journey into cold

You know where you are in an apartment. Specifically, you're on the north-facing corner of a building, 15 floors above ground level, sandwiched between neighbours southwest, southeast, above and below, all of whom are living in and, importantly, heating their own apartments. Winter is, basically, something that happens to other people.

Houses are another matter. Particularly here in Auckland, where building standards are laxer than a prostitute's knickers and about as insulating.

We moved our stuff in, with the help of the in-laws, over Saturday and Sunday, and on Monday night we slept on the living-room floor in front of the heater.

Oh yes, the house has a gas heater. It's the envy of all our friends, it has a timer and a thermostat and it gives out hot air like a session of parliament, but even so the room was colder than a charity for penguins. Have I mentioned Kiwi building standards lately? There is a special room in Hell for New Zealand builders, it's cold and draughty and noisy with an uneven floor and leaky windows. We were extraordinarily fussy - our house only has two of those defects.

Monday morning we returned the van, then went shopping for a washing machine. Buying stuff was to be a recurring theme of the week. By the end of the day, we had a working phone and internet connection (although no space to set up a computer), a high-quality TV antenna, and washer/dryer and fridge-freezer scheduled for delivery Wednesday.

Tuesday, we manoeuvred the bed into its rightful position upstairs, then I trekked back to the flat to finish emptying it, including the old fridge and freezer. We decided to store the food overnight in the dog kennel - sorry, I mean wine cellar. I don't think the food even noticed it was no longer in a fridge.

On Wednesday we slept in - lulled by the comfort of a proper bed, deceived by the heavy bedroom drapes, and not least, deterred from setting foot outside the covers by the numbing temperature. I awoke only to answer my mobile phone. It was the washing-machine guys telling me they'd be here before eleven. Checking my watch, that meant I'd better be getting dressed. A few minutes later the fridge people rang, giving an estimate (wildly optimistic, as it turned out) of between 4 and 5.

Thursday was our first morning in a Fully Functional House, which I define as one where you can both take a hot bath and make a proper cup of tea in the morning. We spent most of the day unpacking and tidying, then had the In-Laws over for a dinner to celebrate our new fridge.

Friday, we now have a large shopping list. We need bookcases, light bulbs, secateurs, dishrack, slippers and bathrobes, stepladder and so on and on and on. Much of the weekend we spend looking for all these things. A storm in the small hours of Saturday morning causes me to prioritise the stepladder, as - lying awake and listening to the weather - I conceive a strong urge to take down the canopy that covers half the deck, before the wind whips it clean away and takes half our roof with it.

By Sunday we're running out of steam. We've already spent many hours shopping and cleaning and unpacking and arranging, we've done the jobs that seemed most urgent, and now it feels like diminishing returns are setting in. I'm almost looking forward to going back to work the next day, just for a change of pace.

And that brings us almost up to date. It's still cold, but we're learning to cope with it. Pretty soon, I'm hoping, we'll be back to something like a normal life.

Moving, day one

Friday, 10 July dawns optimistically bright. Sunlight through the blinds swiftly warms our bedroom, and I haul myself out of bed for our last-ever lazy day in the apartment. Susan, sniffling, asks for honey and lemon instead of tea. On general principles, I add a couple of slices of ginger as well.

At 9:00 exactly, I phone the lawyer. The house was still standing yesterday, I tell him, so please go ahead and complete. He promises to call back when it's done. I switch my phone to "Loud", tell Susan to keep an ear open for it, and go for a shower.

About 9:40 we stroll out to Alleluya for a big café breakfast. One last taste of city living. Big Breakfast for me, K-Road Special for S. It's quite nippy in Kevin's Arcade, and the tables in the sun are very popular, but it's a weekday morning so we still collar one. Food is fine. A couple of sparrows flutter about the tables, scrounging for crumbs and perching on the backs of chairs. Target would mark the place down for that, but I still think they brighten up the place and represent a vote of confidence in the comfort. About 10:00, the estate agent calls - congratulations, we can pick up the key any time.

"By the way, the lawyer called while you were in the shower" says S. "Thank you for not worrying me", I reply.

S wants a haircut at the place in the arcade. I go home and pack, desultorily. As I walk past the kebab place near the junction of K Road and Liverpool Street, a customer is clearing his sinuses impressively. I feel strong relief that I've succeeded in industriously ignoring the place for four and a half years.

As I pack, there's a programme on Triangle about Eartha Kitt. Being Triangle, it's an extremely cheap programme - probably cobbled together by a fan, mostly out of other people's documentary footage - but surprisingly well finished for all that. The sound quality, particularly, is excellent.

Around 11:15, we arrive at the agents to collect the key. Our agent isn't there, but another one hands the envelope over with a smile. "Don't I have to sign anything? I could be anyone."

It doesn't seem to have occurred to them. I guess, if I were Anyone, I'd be discovered pretty soon - and in the meantime, all I'd have would be access to an empty house. Still, something feels slightly - amateurish, about the whole performance.

At 11:30 we reach our new home. As I park outside the driveway, another car pulls into it behind me. Then a postal van. I had no idea it was such a social nexus. We amble up the drive and meet our new neighbour. Blair is a policeman. Not one of those tough, businesslike rozzers you see on the tackier type of TV drama, but a rather vague, definitely people-oriented person, in no hurry to get indoors and on with his day. We discuss police shifts and lawnmowers, learn of his own moving experience and where he works, before we can tear ourselves away to get inside.

The key is tiny, sized more for a locker or padlock than a front door, but it works all right. The door is double-locked. We search the house for more keys. None. Bloody kitchen drawers don't open, until I notice the child locks. The lights and water work, but no hot water. I dust the place with flea powder (the previous owners had a dog), while Susan potters about complaining about window seals and loose joinery. I really don't care right now - time enough to worry about that once we've moved in. Measure spaces for fridge and washing machine.

Outside, gas cylinders have been delivered. I turn on the gas and go inside. Gas hob now works beautifully. Hot water works once I figure out which way to turn the tap. The gas heater in the living room also works, but then I get a text from S: "I smell gas". She's texting me for that? I go outside. She's standing by the heater vent.

12:30, back to agent to ask about missing keys. "Under the doormat." What is this, 1960?

12:50, back to house. Sure enough, keys under doormat. Don't fit garage or patio doors, though. Text agent, who claims there are no keys for those. Ho hum. We're going to need a locksmith.

1:30, done for now. Home for tea break. The sky is turning white - there's a thin, even layer of very high cloud, far above the occasional puffs of cumulus. Still to do today: packing, buy fridge, freezer, broom, washing machine.

2:30, back out to shop for whiteware. Petrol first. The car has done 478km for 39.5 litres. That's 28.5 mpg in American, 34 mpg in British. Not too bad, for city driving in midwinter.

Back on the road: whereever did this traffic come from? It's daytime on a weekday, dammit. Sit on the motorway quite long enough, before reaching the shop we scouted a month ago, whose selection seems to have evaporated. Back to the motorway, all the way to West City - traffic worthy of rush hour - while S starts to whimper. I know the symptoms: Valkyrie Needs Food Badly. Arrive at West City, where there are four whiteware shops side by side.

Explore fridges and freezers. Doing the sums, we realise a fridge/freezer is cheaper to run than separate fridge plus freezer, even though the separate versions are individually more efficient. It's a size thing.

For dinner: there's a surprisingly good Japanese restaurant at Westgate. As we sit and review our achievements, I think the Big Day is in danger of morphing into just another day, with nothing more than a dull ache in the calves to show for it. We haven't bought any of the big stuff we set out for, and tomorrow the work begins in earnest - collect the van and raid brother-in-law's house. It's all a bit worrying. At the last moment we remember to buy a hammer and broom, essential tools for any proud householder.

Moving by easy stages. Can't beat it.