The Renovators (Fibro edition)

Sunday night in the Fibro has become all about houses. The Block, Grand Designs, The Renovators. It's a TV transformation fest. The only show we haven't taken to is Top Design - too many hipsters, too little information.

We've always been fans of home shows. Hence our addiction to Escape to the Country during the drought of the last year or so. But now renovating is back in fashion and back on the box. Which is all very good timing, as we are about to renovate our bathroom and kitchen.

Yep, the Fibro is getting a makeover.

It's not the first time we've renovated. We totally 'did over' our cottage in the Big Smoke, down to replacing the rotting floors, putting in the missing windows and knocking down the termite-ridden lean-to kitchen at the back. It was a big job, but we did it pre-kids and we had fun - mostly. I will always contend that you never really know your partner until you renovate a house with them. Only then will you truly understand the difference between 'bluey-green' and 'greeny-blue' as a paint colour. Not to mention the importance of finding the exact, right 'profile' for your toilet.

The Builder is, as you'd imagine, a great man to renovate with. When I was dating I had but two main criteria for the man I would love: he must read books and put up shelves. In The Builder, I found both. And how. Not only can he put up shelves, he can build the whole house around them. Love that.

He has quite specific ideas about our renovations. Which is a good thing because, really, the profile of the toilet is neither here nor there to me. But his exacting eye for detail means a much better finish in the end. At least, that's what I tell myself when he shows me the 750th potential toilet/basin/tile. But we have the same aesthetic so coming to an agreement is not generally that difficult. Most of the time.

Renovating a fibro house brings with it an added edge of excitement. Disturbing asbestos is not for the faint-hearted or the amateur. It should only be done with the help of an expert. Fortunately, I have one at home - he may look like a Teletubbie in his asbestos safety gear but at least he's a safe Teletubbie. And we'll all be moving out for the duration to my parents' place to enjoy the fruits of their own recent bathroom renovation as they travel north for the winter.

We are at the enjoyable phase of renovating. The planning and deciding. Before the not-so-enjoyable dusty, expensive bit begins. I think that's half the joy of renovating shows - you get to watch the transformation, without the discomfort, and with the added frisson of being able to say 'why would you do that? I'd never do it that way!'.

Wish us luck!

Have you renovated? Got any tips?

[image: What will the Fibro look like after the reno? Hopefully as cute as this one from In My House]

Sweating on a storm

In my mind, I am sitting here, writing a witty, fabulous, thought-provoking blog post. Of course, in my mind, I am also sitting in an air-conditioned office, sipping a tall, iced glass of something, being fanned with palm leaves by gorgeous young men... hmmm, perhaps we'll leave that right there.

It's hot. Real hot. Too hot to type. Way too hot for a witty, fabulous, thought-provoking post. If you ever wondered about the insulation quality of your basic fibro cottage, I have to tell you that it's a very low quality. Like non-existent. If it's 40 degrees celsius outside, it's probably 42 degrees celsius in here.

In here, where I am trying to write as the sweat trickles down my arm, dropping into little pools on the keyboard. My fingers are sliding into nchytsl - whoops, sorry. Typos are part of the territory.

Anyhoo. I'm hot. But I'm not cowered in my house with my precious documents double-wrapped in plastic and my five precious children gathered close. That would be my Cousin A. In Townsville. Awaiting Cyclone Yasi. In its path, along with other members of extended Fam Fibro.

I rang her this morning. She told me it was eerily still. No birds. Not a breath of wind. I asked if she was okay. "Oh yeah," she said. "Just waiting."

"You're not leaving?"

"Where would we go?" She has a point. The storm is apparently 500km across and due to go as far inland as Mt Isa. It is big.

A is the most practical woman I know. I travelled in Europe with her for two years and it is because of her that I managed to find my way home. I have the sense of direction of an indoor plant. She is a homing pigeon. We would walk out of a hostel and I would unerringly turn in the wrong direction - away from the station/church/okay, pub that we were looking for. She would gently grab my arm and haul me and my backpack back on track.

I am sweating for her. In more ways than one.

Fingers crossed for a cool change in the Fibro - and an all-clear text from Cousin A.

A light breeze is a blessing. The rest Mother Nature can keep.

Update: finally got that text: All well here. Relief all round.