On Home Novelist Judy Nunn on the lure of verandahs.

Outdoor spaces are just as integral to the Australian home as the rooms inside, and a rich font of memories for this best-selling author.

Verandahs and balconies are my favourite features of any home and I have had many an affiliation with them over the years. My earliest memory of such a connection is of the old, colonial-style family home in Perth where I grew up. The front of the house was a single storey with surrounding verandahs and the rear, sloping down the hill as it did, became two storeys, with a large upper balcony that overlooked the Swan River.

The balcony was a favourite spot for my parents, particularly on a late summer’s afternoon, when they would sit and watch the yachts out on the bay, with a beer and dish of tinned asparagus spears to hand. (Don’t ask. It was always tinned asparagus; the memory is quite vivid.)

This was also the favourite sunning spot for Satie, the cat. At least, that’s what I called him when I was eight years old. His real name was Satan and he was huge. Black, grey-flecked and old, fat and fearless, he would lie on the wooden railing of the balcony with his giant paws placed delicately in front of one another and his stomach sagging over either side, perfectly balanced and fast asleep.

I remember one day when my cousin’s lunatic dog, a cocker spaniel called Baron, came belting up the back stairs to the balcony, barking like a thing demented. Baron should have known better, for whenever the two came face to face, Satan would stand his ground, cobrahissing, hackles raised, and Baron would run for his life. But this time, poor old Satie was blissfully out to it.

Not for long, though. The rack et roused him and, although I’m sure he wanted to turn and confront Baron, he couldn’t; there wasn’t enough room on the railing to manoeuvre his bulk. So, in order to escape the noise, Satie slowly rose and launched himself from the balcony, sailing through the air like a mothy missile down to the grassy slope five metres below. He landed on all fours, as cats do, but also on his belly, because his legs gave way under his weight. It was frightening. You could literally hear the exhalation, the air expelled with full force as if from a set of bellows.

I was terrified. I thought Satie was dead, but he wasn’t. The cat stood and ambled off to the big peppermint tree nearby, where he climbed to one of the lower branches and promptly went back to sleep.

In my late teens, when I moved to Sydney and became a struggling actress living in bedsits, I missed the verandahs and balconies of my childhood. Years later, when I went overseas to seek fame and fortune, I discovered that London didn’t favour verandahs and balconies at all (well, not the London I could afford).

Then, back home in Australia and settled once again in Sydney’s Surry Hills, I bought a little run-down terrace house and built myself a sundeck on top. Not a verandah or balcony, I agree, but it was bliss nonetheless. And, admittedly, not overlooking the water like the old family home. Rather, the view was of the back lane and I was overlooked by the bottle shop and car park of the Clock Hotel, but still, beggars can’t be choosers.