Country Squire: Rob Ingram and his wife have a colourful gang of housemates.
ROB INGRAM MAY LIVE WITH HIS WIFE IN HANDYMAN HALL IN DUNEDOO, BUT THAT’S NOT TO SAY THEY LIVE ALONE.
MAYBE IT’S THE SAME wherever people live remotely. But out here in the little house on the prairie, we’ve created a colourful gang of virtual housemates to keep us company. I was running through them the other day while tidying up the front room with my cleaning buddy J. Edgar.
All our vacuum cleaners have been named J. Edgar … dating back, I guess, to when one was a Hoover. The fact that there’s been a J. Edgar Miele, a J. Edgar Cyclone and a J. Edgar Dyson along the way doesn’t matter at all. Even a J. Edgar Samsung. But a J. Edgar Electrolux would have been just too silly. Whatever, a common cry around the house is, “Who last used J. Edgar? His bag needs changing.”
We coped pretty well with the mouse plague out here. Largely due to Polly the cat and her noticeable weight gain. She headed them off at the verandah, but one got under her radar and has taken up residence in the office in a pile of paperwork. We haven’t seen him but we can hear him, so he’s become known as Russell. Like someone in government, Russell works around the clock shredding documents.
Our house, which in earlier columns was affectionately dubbed Handyman Hall, dates back to 1883. In those days, architects favoured the 12-foot ceiling, no doubt as a result of being lobbied by spiders wishing to remain well out of reach. So it is that we have a plaster cornice smugly occupied by a house spider very similar to one I recall from a childhood horror movie. I get along okay with spiders now and, when one comes within reach, I will trap it in a glass and then go looking for an attractive rehousing environment.
The Chosen One, on the other hand, displays first-degree murder tendencies and keeps the house rocking along to the percussion of spiders being eradicated with everything from thongs and meat mallets to ironing boards and piano stools. Meanwhile Murphy the spider lives on safely on his plaster cornice. Murphy? Almost certainly his name comes from the lyrics of Jailhouse
Rock. All together now.
Spider Murphy played the tenor saxophone
Little Joe was blowin’ on the slide trombone
The drummer boy from Illinois went crash, boom, bang The whole rhythm section was the Purple Gang
There’s another member of the extended family who stops by to share a bit of baritone conversation with us. This is Jean-baptiste the frog who has discovered that by croaking in the downpipe he can produce greater volume and range and boast exaggerated male virility. Okay, we’ve all relied on a few tricks like that. Kermit was too obvious a name for him. But we needed something froggy … hence Jean-baptiste.
And, of course, there’s Casper, the friendly ghost who lives in the stables – the closest thing we’ve got to a crypt – and constantly rearranges its contents. Casper has not yet spoken to any of the family, but a young visitor to the property once reported that he said “Boo!” to her.
He does however generate spooky noises, which generally turn out to be an avalanche of tools and equipment that he has piled up since we last looked there.
“What was that noise?” we say. “It must be bloody Casper again.”
We’ve even morphed into a few other characters ourselves. When the colds and flu were about, I developed a chest infection which caused me to constantly clear my throat. Younger members of the family unkindly dubbed me Mr Fleming, and later Mr Lucas, as in Old Man Lucas made a lot of mucus. Charming, I know.
If I’m not mistaken, Australia’s next national Census is not too far away. And I’m going to have to answer the same old question, “How many occupants are there at this address?”
I reckon about 18 might be close. What are their ages? What languages do they speak? It’s all so stressful. And each Christmas, those confounded cards that say, “Season’s Greetings to All at Your House”. If only they knew.
“LIKE SOMEONE IN GOVERNMENT, RUSSELL WORKS AROUND THE CLOCK SHREDDING DOCUMENTS.”