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.

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.

Go away: it's Sunday and I'm couch-bound!

Unfortunately, I've missed the last couple of days of lovely weather (of which there haven't been many this summer), due to some mystery illness that's seen me drifting in and out of sleep on the couch.

Even my BBC Pride and Prejudice DVD was sick of it all today, deciding to play up in patches. And no, before you ask, I haven't worn out the part where Colin Firth jumps in the lake. I'm no Bridget Jones.

I made a huge effort to get up and feign good health this morning, for the benefit of a couple of prospective new tenants of the flat. Why they had to come on a Sunday, I don't know. The property manager didn't come - since she doesn't work on Sundays - so I was a bit put out that I couldn't declare the flat closed, too... like all businesses dealing in essentials. (I did miss 7-day shopping when I arrived here, though I'm used to it now.)

I considered using my illness as an excuse to shut the flat for quarantine purposes, but my German is too limited to make elaborate excuses. I could have croaked "Schweinegrippe" through the intercom when the visitors arrived, but that would have been about it. If only, I thought, I could have implied that I was suffering something mould-related, that would've sent 'em running.

Instead, there were quizzes about electricity and heating costs, how much sunlight gets into the flat in the mornings (considering it's partially underground), and when, definitely, the property would be vacant (leaving on August 31 - flights to Birmingham are booked). All of this took place in German, giving me the chance to make a complete idiot of myself by getting halfway through a sentence about electricity consumption before realising I didn't know how to finish it. It only emerged just as they were leaving that they could speak English.

"This my room," my daughter said proudly, pointing.

"Yes, your room," one of the visitors said. "It's pink!" And indeed it is. Here's proof: a photo of my daughter, then aged 16 months, in her newly-painted room.

After that, the visitors said "goodbye" and "danke", and went outside, where they burst out laughing as soon as the building door was closed. It was all clearly, uncomfortably audible due to the open windows. (Ventilation is vital in the fight against mould.)

Nobody likes the feeling of being laughed at, but I've become used to people thinking wrong things about me here (ie that my daughter has "two mothers", or that I'm English), so I decided that whatever they were laughing at, I didn't care.

Besides, if they move into this flat, the final joke will be on them.

Even sealed plastic is no protection!

Ugh. Another mould disaster.

This time, I'm not talking about the fuzzy white blobs flowering on the wooden furniture (I'm either cleaning those off, or cheerfully ignoring them for the time being). No. This time I'm complaining about the contents of my kitchen cupboards.

I just took out a packet of par-baked bread rolls to put in the oven for my lunch. Par-baked rolls are cheap in Germany, cheaper than buying fresh rolls (and don't even think about sandwich loaf here - it's inedible). These packets of par-baked rolls usually keep well, but I've just found, in a packet with a month left before its expiry date, that every roll was covered with blue-green mould blobs. The packet was sealed, only purchased a couple of days ago... and very, very mouldy.

This isn't the first time I've opened a sealed packet of food, to find the contents green/blue/grey and fuzzy. The worst culprit is desiccated coconut... bleurgh!

Somehow, bugs seem to colonise sealed packets of food, as well. Ground hazelnuts are a particular favourite of these sneaky creatures.

I don't know how it happens (especially the bug problem), but it drives me nuts when I want to prepare food and it turns out that my unopened, within-date ingredients have to be turfed out, and I can't make the recipe I was planning. I always thought sealed packets were good protection against bugs, although I know by now that nothing stops mould! (And leaving a packet of, say, tea leaves, open in the cupboard is just an invitation to disaster. Don't do it. You have only yourself to blame, which is no comfort when you're throwing out that mass of tea-leaf shaped mould squiggles.)

My only tip is... don't keep a store cupboard full of useful plastic-packaged ingredients, even if the packet is sealed and the expiry date is sometime next year. Try to buy these ingredients only as you need them, because things that you might expect to keep well, won't necessarily do so.

For a distraction from mould (I know I need one), I've posted a YouTube player at the bottom of the page (under the posts), displaying some videos of south Wales, which mostly relate to places I visited in March 2008. I've also posted a slide show of some of my own photos. Related blog posts to follow soon!

Fun with fumes

The other day, while embarking on a mould-killing offensive in my bathroom, I experienced a few blissful moments of escape.

I could have been disturbed by the stinging of stray Sagrotan (bleach) droplets on my arms. I could have lamented the mysterious new blobs of bleach on fabrics on the far side of the room. I might even have worried about the potential effects of the fumes.

Instead, I stood back (gloves on, with a towel tied over my face), and breathed just a hint of chlorine in the warm, humid air.

"Just like being at the pool," I thought, while chilling out to my summer holiday soundtrack (the noisy exhaust fan - sounds just like air conditioning at home). I was reminded so much of relaxed childhood holidays that, for a few minutes, I started floating off on happy, chlorine-scented memories. I swayed gently, spray bottle in one hand, old toothbrush (for scrubbing grouting and fiddly bits) hanging limply in the other. I wondered vaguely if I should fill the bath, put my bathing suit on, and hop in.

And then I realised that the fumes had gone to my head, and I'd better get out of the room. Quickly.