A new home for my packing boxes, and a new mouldy dilemma

Well, it's done.

I have moved out of the maths house (though I hate to think what I left behind, stuffed down the sides of the couch, behind and under beds, and stuck inside the washing machine). And now, at last, I’m establishing myself as Coventry's newest, and possibly maddest, "Australian lady".

I'm living in a packing box-piled, semi-organised terrace house, doing civilised things like walking to the shops and walking my daughter to nursery. I am, to all intents and purposes, Settling In, although sometimes I feel that confusion follows me everywhere I go. Little things shock me, too, like mail suddenly poking through the letterbox in the front door, while I'm in the front room. My daughter, hearing someone, wants to throw the door open and see who's there, while I, feeling strangely violated, want to hide behind the couch. How dare those letters and junk mail enter my house without my permission?! They could have knocked first! Or gone into a letterbox at the front gate, a respectable distance away... yes, that would be far less intrusive.

(For those of you who find this strange, I grew up in a house that Australia Post didn't even visit. All our mail went to a post office box. This slot in the door thing is quite a shock to my system.)

The house has given me some bragging rights – yes, it has a renovated bathroom, six-burner stove, huge oven, nice little garden out the back. I’m also proud to announce, to the folks back home who think attics are Rich People's luxuries, that I do have a storage loft, with cute little pull-down stairs. (My puffed-out chest must deflate slightly as I admit I haven’t actually pulled them down myself yet, let alone climbed them. But I’ve seen it done, so I know it’s possible.)

And so, thanks to the loft, all the packing boxes will have a home until the next move. They’re ready to be reused yet again. Still sturdy, I think their willingness to keep moving will outlast mine.

On the downside of the house, it is, at its narrowest (the bathroom at the rear), a mere 172 cm wide. No bathroom cupboards. No room for the little cupboard that’s come all the way from Canberra to Potsdam to Coventry. (It’s sitting in the backyard, wrapped in bubblewrap, waiting for a home in the house, and hoping it doesn’t get rained on.)

Even the lovely stove/oven has its drawbacks. Evidently somebody got a bit vigorous with cleaning it in the past, and most of the information near the dials (oven temperatures, burner settings etc) has been scrubbed clean off. The grill is also extremely difficult to get going, and almost as temperamental as I am. We came to an understanding that allowed me to grill some cheese on bread this afternoon, but I’m sure we’ll fall out again soon.

And now, of course, to the all-important question.

Is the house mouldy?

The answer, my friends, is that there are some suspicious black spots above the kitchen window. And, unfortunately, some mould in the washing machine.

At this point I’d like to open myself up to suggestions. What’s the best way to get rid of mould, and the mouldy smell, in an otherwise wonderful washing machine? Any tips will be gratefully received.

Toilets: a brief comparative guide

Thanks to The Simpsons, I knew that water swirls down northern hemisphere drains in the opposite direction from the way it swirls Down Under.

But, honestly, I didn’t really expect all the other little differences between bathrooms. My previous trips out of Australia, prior to moving to Europe, had only been to Asia. Obviously you’d expect some differences there (e.g. squat toilets flushed by buckets of water, plumbing that can’t handle toilet paper, that sort of thing). But moving to Germany, I was qute naïve. I packed my Little Squirt, a device used for washing the soiling off nappies and directly into the toilet bowl. The Little Squirt hooked up to the toilet pipes in Australia and was one of the best purchases a cloth-nappy using household could make.

I did have some idea that the Little Squirt might not be compatible with the German toilet. However, I was unprepared for the fact that German toilets had no external pipes at all. The back of the toilet fitted directly into the wall.

My German bathroom - note the way the toilet pipes, cistern etc are all concealed behind tiles

I was unprepared for other German toilet issues, too, such as the matter of the Shelf Toilet (also known among my friends as the toilet bowl with Obervation Deck). Truly frightening, these toilets catch your bowel motions and hold them up on a shelf, out of the water, in order that they may boldly present themselves for your inspection before you flush. Nobody can help looking at the shelf's offerings, even if they don’t want to see. (An informal survey of fellow foreigners in Germany revealed that we all had the same horrifying problem of involuntary but compulsive stool inspection when faced with these abominable toilets.)

An Observation Deck Toilet (or ODT) may be useful if you live in a region (or an era) where you need to check fastidiously for worms. It may also be useful if you’ve been landed with medical orders to ensure that your stools are strictly 3 or 4 on the Bristol Stool Scale. But, honestly, I had one eye on that chart myself for months after childbirth, and I managed fine without an Observation Deck.

My hatred of the ODT was so great that, had my German flat been fitted with one, I probably wouldn’t have rented the place. It was bad enough using an ODT at a friend’s place, or in a shopping centre or café, without having to put up with one at home. Even when no bowel movement was involved, a trip to an ODT was always a revolting experience. If I needed to be put off my own bodily functions (and I didn’t, as I already found them disgusting enough, thank you), an ODT would have done it straight away.

And so, it was with great pleasure that I left German toilets behind and headed for the UK.

• Normal bowl shape: check.
• Free to use in public: check (no more worries about running out of small change to take my little girl on her third trip to the loo).
• Children’s toilets, wheelchair & pram accessible toilets and nappy-change facilities, all easily located in public: check.

The UK is a great place to be out and about, in terms of toilet availability (unlike Germany, where few parents venture out with nappy bags, possibly because there are so few baby-change facilities available that expeditions are mostly kept short and timed to occur between changes and feeds). In the UK, toilets are easily found, accessible, and in my experience, generally kept in good order. I don't need to leave the house with a mental Toilet Plan. I just go out, safe in the knowledge that there will be toilets. No need to panic.

My one, unexpected gripe is that my friendly local toilets all seem to flush with levers, rather than with buttons. And so, my little girl, who used to be so proud of going to the toilet, and wiping and flushing all by herself, can no longer flush every time. She tries hard, practising many times a day, but she’s frustrated that, just like when she was younger, she needs an adult with her for every trip to the loo.

Lever flushes, however, are a small price to pay. As far as I’m concerned, a British toilet is a good toilet.

A humble example of a standard British toilet - note the pipes, flush and normal toilet bowl

The rules: what not to do when you've been sent to Coventry

It may well be that UK house-hunting is over (for the time being). Looks like Coventry may become my new home.

I am developing a set of rules to remind myself of how I should behave, in order not to turn the whole of Coventry against me during my stay.

1. I must not imagine I am Lady Godiva. True, she's quite the local legend, but I suspect my own figure is best covered up by more than my hair. Also, I don't have access to a horse, and riding a bicycle/scooter/rollerblades/the bus naked would probably be misunderstood by both the general public and the police, and would definitely have no influence on tax rates.
2. I must learn how to respond when I approach a shop counter and receive the somewhat confusing greeting, "Arraight?".
3. I must not attempt to use the above-mentioned greeting in my own accent.
4. I must not attempt to use the local accent. Ever.
5. I must not pronounce any local place names unless I have received private coaching first, e.g. "Cheylesmore is pronounced Charlesmore" and "Stivichall is pronounced "Sty-chill". Whoever heard of a silent V?

Is that a squirrel on my head?

Still suffering from international-movingitis, I've been away from the blog for another week. Pathetic, I know, but electronic communications only remind me that I can't communicate with my friends or relatives in any other way right now. So, let's just say that I've been avoiding my computer where possible, and staring out the window instead.

Despite the grey skies, there are some very cheering sights: rabbits chasing each other and nibbling fallen fruits, and squirrels darting about with their bushy tails in the air. I walk through a wood in order to get anywhere (except the bus stop). A wood! There's something I could never say in Australia. I feel like I'm finally close to living out my girlhood Sylvanian Families fantasy, except I'm human and the animals are not wearing clothes. Oh, yes, and my temporary home looks like a two-storey block of public toilets (according to my sister, who's seen the photographs), not a cute woodland cottage.

I'm feeling a trifle exposed - some of the windows have no curtains and in the mornings, there are people outside, mowing the grass or walking dogs into the the thick vegetation at the edge of the lawn. I can see out, but people can also, possibly, see right in. I wonder if they can see the ironing board, piled high with solo, partnerless socks (why is it that when you're living out of a suitcase, half your socks disappear within a day or two?).

I wonder if they can see me in my pyjamas, crouching in front of the armchair (on top of a pile of Playmobil and coloured pencils) until they've gone and I can make a break for the stairs, which my daughter will chase me up, ensuring that it takes me half the day to get washed and dressed and back downstairs.

Perhaps my birdsnest hair, untended by a hairdresser* for nearly 27 months, and poking up over the top of the armchair, is within the dog-walkers' line of sight.

Come to think of it, perhaps my birdsnest hair is what's attracting so much wildlife. I don't need a wood to do that, as long as I'm sitting still, with my head screwed on. And, as I realise when I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror or one of the curtainless windows, my head is, sadly, firmly attached at all times.

*Note: my hair, while straggly, split-endy, suddenly greying and grown out of its former layered cut, is definitely clean. Even using the "power shower" here (which dribbles out water in alternating hiccups of scalding hot and freezing cold), I manage to get it washed regularly. But as we all know, headlice prefer clean hair, so it's entirely possible that squirrels do, too.

Mould, old and new

Well, I've done it. I have fled the old flat, left Germany, and arrived within the city limits of... Coventry.

A bottle of Sagrotan, some toothbrushes and cleaning cloths saw significant reductions in mould around the window frames, skirting boards, doors, fridge, freezer and tile grouting, and a coat of paint or three soon fixed up most of the walls. (Huge thanks to those who lent a hand - I was very lucky to find such wonderful friends in Germany.)

And now it's time for a huge sigh of relief! Look at the very unmouldy bedroom left behind!

Unfortunately, since arriving at my temporary Coventry accommodation, I've discovered what English mould smells like. Very different from German mould, and just as unpleasant in its own way. Luckily, the mould in this house is mostly confined to the peculiar rear bedroom/mathematician's heaven. (It scares me, and not just because of the smell.)

Missing Germany, missing friends, and hoping life in the UK soon feels normal.