Buying this sideboard (and then deciding what to put in it) reminded me of this song by Jimeoin:
In my kitchen, there’s a drawer at the top
It’s got cutlery, knives, forks, spoons, the lot.
Second drawer down’s got a big knife and an egg-whip.
Things that should go in the first drawer,
But they just don’t fit
And the third drawer down, from the top,
It’s just full of shit.
Ha ha! There’s ton’s of it!
Elastic bands and tally-ho’s that don’t stick.
Dried up glue, false teeth,
Something stolen from a hotel
Things that are broken, that you know you’ll never fix
But you put them in the third drawer,
Cause you just ain’t got the heart to throw them away.
It’s the third drawer down, from the top,
And it’s full of shit.
Bum bum bum bum, bum bum bum bum.
Bum bum bum bum.
Bluetac and cella-tape, that’s been hit by a truck
One chop-stick, an ash-tray from Canada
Paid bills and envelopes
Things that you think’ll come in handy,
But they just never do.
It’s the third drawer down, from the top,
And it’s full of shit.
Bum bum bum bum bum, Oh the third drawer
It’s full of shit.
And the fourth drawer down
(That’s the one below the third)
It’s got plastic bags in it.
Advent is a sensual time. I am reminded of the approaching pagan / Christian / capitalist (delete as appropriate) festival through a series of haptic triggers. The scent of freshly chopped Christmas trees assailed me outside a wholefoods shop on the Pollokshaws Road earlier this week, and juicy little clementines and tangerines are now appearin as inexpensive mountains of vitamin C in the shops along Alison Street.
There is some debate in the household about Christmas decorations in the apartment. I might be in the minority when I take the “bah humbug” line and refuse to allow paper chains in the house, but then again it’s my name on the lease.
Glasgow is now delightfully cold. Every day in the last week has been crisp and cold, with only occasional rain, sleet or snow showers interrupting the solidly blue sky that hangs over us from about nine in the morning until almost four in the afternoon. The days are short, but the long evenings are getting cosier and more enjoyable. The first gas bill has been and gone, and now that I’m on a cheaper tariff with a non-profit utility company, I’m no longer afraid to fire up the heating as we need it. I have yet to establish whether the chimney in the small study is still capable of conveying smoke out of the fireplace; until then a couple of candles in the apparently original cast iron grate create the semblance of a warm hearth, if not the actual heat. It was only yesternight that I noticed the delicately painted tiles on either side of the grate were constructed in the wrong sequence on one side. The imbalance of pattern perhaps matches the slightly kinked exterior wall of the apartment.
In a discount frozen food shop on Victoria Road today I chatted briefly with a shivering check-out clerk. The double doors of the unheated shop were open to the pavement, allowing a near constant ebb and flow of mothers, prams, mothers and more prams into the temple of the deep freeze. I joked that it was warmer there in at home.
“You must live in a tenement then.” she replied.
The Glasgow tenement is a magnificent building type. Even here in the scummier and more neglected slum streets of Govanhill, the tall stone apartment buildings retain a grandeur and generosity of space. That said, it is there generous proportions that have recently allowed slum landlords to squeeze multiple migrant families into apartments smaller than mine for deeply exploitative rents.
The British and Scottish Government have both postulated at length about helping homeowners to insulate their homes and to save money and energy on their heating bills. These plans (including grants for home insulation upgrades) are not to be snuffed at, but they aren’t much use for the tenants of rented apartments in Glasgow. Not only can the solid stone and brick walls not be retro-fitted with cavity insulation, only the top floor apartments really benefit from lagging the roofspaces.
The only weak spot of the apartment is the original Victorian single glazing. I am deeply in love with the tall sash windows that flood every room with light (the ceilings are about 3 metres high, and the windows occupy about 2/3 of that height right up to the cornicing). But there are almost drafty when closed as when they are opened. In this winter of tightening means, I’m learning the simple (and free) tricks that help cut energy wastage in this home. The sashes can be sealed with plastic strips, but I prefer to leave them open-able throughout the winter to diffuse condensation from damp clothes that have to be dried indoors. The two leaves of the window have to be screwed as tightly closed as possible when not in use, to minimise the gap between the bottom of the upper leaf and the top of the moveable lower leaf.
Closing internal doors also cuts down on drafts through the apartment. Air only seeps in or out of a drafty window if the air has cause to leave or enter the room somewhere else. The curtains that came with the apartment aren’t too thick, but my calculations for replacing them with thicker ones (or doubled up Ikea readymades) means I have to make do with the ones we’ve got.
Finally, I’m becoming a master of the central heating thermostat. In at least one of my student digs I cohabited with friends who had no concept of sensible heating use. Turning the thermostat up and on to continuous heat costs a fortune (and is quite unnecessary at night when you’re tucked up under your own personal insulation, aka a duvet). So I’m tweaking the clock on the thermostat to provide bursts of heat for one hour at a time in the early morning and evening.
As a friendly father-to-be reminded me the other day, Glasgow’s larger tenements like mine are ultimately pretty sound in terms of insulation. The walls are deep and solid, providing a thick layer of heavy mass around us. The weak spots are the windows. A home-owner would see a definite incentive to replace them with double glazing, but the costs for a three bedroom 100 square metre apartment such as this would be huge. A landlord has no incentive to make this investment when it’s his tenants who have to foot the heating bill.
Most problematically, the cheapest form of replacement windows are UPVC, produced by a horrendously polluting and petro-chemical dependent process. They’re also hideously ugly, requiring much larger window frame widths, and ageing visually as their plastic inevitably discolours. Every apartment in Glasgow and every home in Britain will have to be prepared for the inevitable exhaustion of all natural gas sources. Within my lifetime I expect every gas powered central heating and hot water system to be obsolete. A plastic window frames will be unaffordable, as the petro-chemicals needed to produce them are used up.
My honest expectation is that I will see out my days in a super-insulated home that requires no dedicated heating. I could design one today and move in; that technology for new-build structures is proven and exists. But it’s irrelevant for the vast majority of British people who live, like me, in homes that were built before energy consumption was even a concern.
There is, amongst successful architects, a fabled and very exclusive club. A club with a membership over which the member has no control; one which invites you in as you realise the fragility of the architect’s profession. In an extract from this article in Building Design, Charlie Hussey and Charlie Sutherland recall their tutor at the Glasgow School of Art, Isi Metzstein:
If you ever receive an unsolicited bottle of Macallan from Isi Metzstein, you have some cause for concern. This is a club with a select membership, to which James Stirling, Enric Miralles and Louis Kahn can all lay claim.
And certainly the distressing state of St Peter’s Seminary in Cardross, masterwork of Isi and his partner Andy Macmillan, is a testament to the founding of the Macallan Club, membership of which is restricted to those whose buildings are demolished, redundant or abandoned in the architect’s lifetime.
I am some way in my architectural career from joining these illustrious figures. To be honest, I’m not making much headway at all in that particular career, but that is no longer as much of a concern as it once was. But I have passed a modest personal milestone. Seen through the window of a moving train earlier this week, I have glimpsed what must be the first building to be constructed on which I have contributed to the design.
I say “contributed” because I was a lowly student architect, and most of my work involved hacking about with a the structural grid, parking garages and floorplans of a complex of curved apartment blocks. It was a harsh baptism of the reality of modern real estate in this country as I squeezed one bedroom apartments into a footprint of not much more than 52 square metres (560 sq. ft.). Not much room for storage and many with only single aspect. But inspecting the sales brochures online when I got home, I was touched to see that much was as I remembered it.
I have no idea how the birth of this complex into a global financial crisis has affected it, but I am reliably assured that the “entire first phase” has now sold out. No word, though, on how many apartments were in that first phase.
I can’t claim any credit for the appearance or basic design of the building, nor can I defend myself for some truly mediocre space standards. But if you would like to buy me a glass of Macallan 12 the next time you see me, I’ll gladly reminisce about my first steps in this profession.
What’s the golden rule of Dulux colour mixing?
Never trust the god-damn machine to mix the paint how you expect to. Not how it looks on the screen, not how it looks on the swatch cards. Always, always, always invest in sample pots first, and take them home to try on your walls. Or what you see above can end up looking like this:
But not this: