What happens when a pipe to your hot water tank bursts in the night when everyone is sleeping? Luckily for you, it happened to us a few months ago, so I can tell you what happens.
This pipe here, in case you were wondering.
You get woken up by a knock on your door at 6.45am and the voice of your flatmate through the door. This is how the conversation might go:
I'll tell you what happens shall I?
Well, first the living room fills up with water.
Then the water starts coming in the bedroom doors.
At this point it will be around 7.15am and you will need to call your estate agent. If you're super lucky, like us, he will live across the hallway from you and at 8am he will come to your door and you will have a conversation with him that goes something like this:
You'll need to sit on the bed for a little while and weep uncontrollably when you notice this. It's ok, perfectly normal response.
At around 10.30am the carpet guy will show up with an industrial vacuum cleaner. He will suck up nine hundred and sixty litres of water. Let's just average that out and say he will soak up one tonne of water.
He will also break your clock and fail to remove the majority of the water from the bottom of your wardrobe so that the next time the sun comes out your room will smell like a wet woolly dog.
And then the very next day you will get a letter from the landlord informing you that the rent is being increased due to "increases in interest and site maintenance.
*That part's true. I tried to go back to sleep. It didn't work.
This pipe here, in case you were wondering.
You get woken up by a knock on your door at 6.45am and the voice of your flatmate through the door. This is how the conversation might go:
Door: knock knock knock.
Ellie: mmrraagghh, zzzzzz.
Door: knock knock knock knock.
Ellie: WHAT do you WANT?
Flatmate: Ellie the hot water burst. The house is filled with water. What should we do?
Ellie: zzzzz*
Door (pause): knock knock knock.
Flatmate: No really, the house is full of water and we can't turn off the water...
I'll tell you what happens shall I?
Well, first the living room fills up with water.
Then the water starts coming in the bedroom doors.
At this point it will be around 7.15am and you will need to call your estate agent. If you're super lucky, like us, he will live across the hallway from you and at 8am he will come to your door and you will have a conversation with him that goes something like this:
Agent: How far into the house is the water?Around about this time you will notice that the water has started leaking through the walls, and is now soaking through the bottom of your wardrobe.
Tenants: It's into the whole house.
Agent: Oh. Well, I guess you guys will have to mop it up.
Tenants: six centimetres of water. In the WHOLE HOUSE.
Agent (pause): I'll ah...call my carpet guy.
You'll need to sit on the bed for a little while and weep uncontrollably when you notice this. It's ok, perfectly normal response.
At around 10.30am the carpet guy will show up with an industrial vacuum cleaner. He will suck up nine hundred and sixty litres of water. Let's just average that out and say he will soak up one tonne of water.
He will also break your clock and fail to remove the majority of the water from the bottom of your wardrobe so that the next time the sun comes out your room will smell like a wet woolly dog.
And then the very next day you will get a letter from the landlord informing you that the rent is being increased due to "increases in interest and site maintenance.
*That part's true. I tried to go back to sleep. It didn't work.
My gag reflex. We need to talk about it.
There are very few foods that I flat out hands down will not eat. Capsicum is one of them. How anyone can stand the smell, let alone eat it, is completely beyond me. I wouldn't call myself a particularly adventurous eater but I'm generally willing to try most things at least once.
Need I remind you that in 2007 I sampled lutfisk and reindeer on the same plate?
And yes, the fish really did look that appetising in person.
About 3 years ago I was having dinner at my dad's place. There had been no prior mention of what we'd be eating, but I assumed the usual BBQ steak or roast lamb. Had I been forewarned then perhaps I could have mentioned that I Do Not Eat corned beef.
Here is why: when I was in second year at university I did histology. It's microscopic anatomy. I learned what muscle and blood vessels look like under the microscope. For some reason whenever I was eating meat for about a year after that I would get a vivid mental image of the way the tissue looked under the microscope and it would trigger my gag reflex. I just couldn't do it.
So there we are at the dinner table and I'm treading on eggshells anyway because I always inadvertently offend my father's wife, and out comes the dinner. And I mean, this wasn't store bought beef, it was a huge hunk of sweaty pink meat stewing away in the pan. Served with potato and brussel sprouts.
The worst part was that I could see the blood vessels poking out all over the slices of meat. I ate one slice, and with each bite I could feel my teeth grinding up the veins and the muscle fibres. Even smothered in white sauce so I couldn't actually see the meat, I had to try actively not to gag. And let me tell you, you can't wash that image away with brussel sprouts.
I tried. Really I did. But I just couldn't do it.
There are very few foods that I flat out hands down will not eat. Capsicum is one of them. How anyone can stand the smell, let alone eat it, is completely beyond me. I wouldn't call myself a particularly adventurous eater but I'm generally willing to try most things at least once.
Need I remind you that in 2007 I sampled lutfisk and reindeer on the same plate?
And yes, the fish really did look that appetising in person.About 3 years ago I was having dinner at my dad's place. There had been no prior mention of what we'd be eating, but I assumed the usual BBQ steak or roast lamb. Had I been forewarned then perhaps I could have mentioned that I Do Not Eat corned beef.
Here is why: when I was in second year at university I did histology. It's microscopic anatomy. I learned what muscle and blood vessels look like under the microscope. For some reason whenever I was eating meat for about a year after that I would get a vivid mental image of the way the tissue looked under the microscope and it would trigger my gag reflex. I just couldn't do it.
So there we are at the dinner table and I'm treading on eggshells anyway because I always inadvertently offend my father's wife, and out comes the dinner. And I mean, this wasn't store bought beef, it was a huge hunk of sweaty pink meat stewing away in the pan. Served with potato and brussel sprouts.
The worst part was that I could see the blood vessels poking out all over the slices of meat. I ate one slice, and with each bite I could feel my teeth grinding up the veins and the muscle fibres. Even smothered in white sauce so I couldn't actually see the meat, I had to try actively not to gag. And let me tell you, you can't wash that image away with brussel sprouts.
I tried. Really I did. But I just couldn't do it.
We need to talk about Sweden. Sorry. It's the weather.
The chills bring out my need to eat. As if that hasn't been obvious here lately. In particular, I need to eat pepparkakor ...
and drink glögg with almonds.
Like this...
Come over to my house; we'll put on Uppsala jerseys and pretend we're in Sweden. Nobody will ever need to know that it's July in Sydney and the weather is more like this...
If you bring the wine, I promise not to tell.
The chills bring out my need to eat. As if that hasn't been obvious here lately. In particular, I need to eat pepparkakor ...
and drink glögg with almonds.
Like this...
Come over to my house; we'll put on Uppsala jerseys and pretend we're in Sweden. Nobody will ever need to know that it's July in Sydney and the weather is more like this...
If you bring the wine, I promise not to tell.
I like my life at the moment because it is different every day. Except for the days that are identical carbon-copy failures that stretch out, replaying for weeks on end, and make me want to poke my eyeballs out with a pencil. I don't really like those days.
Luckily for you, I chronicled my day yesterday because I had a sense that morning of magic in the air. I wanted to share that magic with you: observe.
In the morning, two exciting deliveries appeared in the lab. They were primers! Hoorah!!
James only ordered one primer, but GeneWorks looks after all its customers and never scrimps on packaging.
Fortunately, the primer had arrived safely. Phew.
My primers also arrived.
But after seeing James' box I had packaging envy all day, and even now I'm not sure how they survived their rough trip from the factory in that little tiny box.
After the excitement of the morning, Liz and I had to take a little side-trip to Eastgardens to calm down. While we were there, I saw the biggest ball of wool known to man, and because I am naturally inquisitive, I stopped to document its existence.
When we returned to the lab the PCR I had set up three hours earlier with my new not contaminated by stupid DNA from damn Papua New Guinea primers was almost finished, so I made some gels.
PCR runs in the little red machine shown below. The little red machine is called a thermal cycler, and for almost 2 weeks I got no results because I was programming it incorrectly. We do not talk about that incident anymore.
As you can see, our gel making apparatus is extremely sophisticated. I won't try to explain it here.
I mixed my samples with gel loading dye so that they don't float out of their wells into the buffer and make me cry. Loading dye has glycerol in it so it weights the sample, keeping it at the bottom of the well.
I pulled the little comb out of the gel and put him in the gel tank. Then I loaded my samples into their lanes. Except for that second last one that looks empty. It's empty.
I am not ready to die yet, and when I go I don't want it to be the result of a bad incident with electrified gel running buffer, so after I loaded my samples I put the lid on the tank.
Once my babies samples were in the tank I turned the power pack from zero...
..too 100 volts in seconds flat. I'm speedy like that.
And I double-checked that it was on by looking to see if there were bubbles in the tank.
Bubbles: check.
Then I set the timer for 24 minutes so I could go back to the office andplay on facebook write some of my thesis while my gel ran.
After 24 minutes I fished my gel out of the tank and took a picture under UV light.
And then I wept tears of joy because for the first time in 9 weeks it did what it was supposed to do. The end.
See, I told you there was magic in the air yesterday morning.
PS. that ball of wool really was gigantic.
Luckily for you, I chronicled my day yesterday because I had a sense that morning of magic in the air. I wanted to share that magic with you: observe.
In the morning, two exciting deliveries appeared in the lab. They were primers! Hoorah!!
James only ordered one primer, but GeneWorks looks after all its customers and never scrimps on packaging.
Fortunately, the primer had arrived safely. Phew.
My primers also arrived.
But after seeing James' box I had packaging envy all day, and even now I'm not sure how they survived their rough trip from the factory in that little tiny box.
After the excitement of the morning, Liz and I had to take a little side-trip to Eastgardens to calm down. While we were there, I saw the biggest ball of wool known to man, and because I am naturally inquisitive, I stopped to document its existence.
When we returned to the lab the PCR I had set up three hours earlier with my new not contaminated by stupid DNA from damn Papua New Guinea primers was almost finished, so I made some gels.
PCR runs in the little red machine shown below. The little red machine is called a thermal cycler, and for almost 2 weeks I got no results because I was programming it incorrectly. We do not talk about that incident anymore.
As you can see, our gel making apparatus is extremely sophisticated. I won't try to explain it here.
I mixed my samples with gel loading dye so that they don't float out of their wells into the buffer and make me cry. Loading dye has glycerol in it so it weights the sample, keeping it at the bottom of the well.
I pulled the little comb out of the gel and put him in the gel tank. Then I loaded my samples into their lanes. Except for that second last one that looks empty. It's empty.
I am not ready to die yet, and when I go I don't want it to be the result of a bad incident with electrified gel running buffer, so after I loaded my samples I put the lid on the tank.
Once my
..too 100 volts in seconds flat. I'm speedy like that.
And I double-checked that it was on by looking to see if there were bubbles in the tank.
Bubbles: check.Then I set the timer for 24 minutes so I could go back to the office and
After 24 minutes I fished my gel out of the tank and took a picture under UV light.
And then I wept tears of joy because for the first time in 9 weeks it did what it was supposed to do. The end.See, I told you there was magic in the air yesterday morning.
PS. that ball of wool really was gigantic.
I was feeling quite chipper on Saturday night, nasal issues not withstanding. It may have been due to large quantities of these...
No..wait..I mean, large quantities of these...
For the record, I only at two of those doughnuts (that night). Which is lucky, because had I eaten more, there is no way I would have been able to eat this...
My name is Ellie, and I am addicted to food.
No..wait..I mean, large quantities of these...
For the record, I only at two of those doughnuts (that night). Which is lucky, because had I eaten more, there is no way I would have been able to eat this...
My name is Ellie, and I am addicted to food.
People. Observe. I have a custom domain name now. I am so nerdly excited.
I've been in bed for a while now. I have a chest infection. That's my excuse and I'm sticking to it, so just..get out of my face ok.
In my trawling through the internets over the last many months, something has become very clear to me. I love food, I love blogging: it all makes sense to me now. The link lists of Tuesdays with Dorie and Daring Bakers are an absolute goldmine of procrastination and food porn. Also, I just love Bakerella and Pioneer Woman. I love them and I want to go and make sweet pastry love with them right now.
The sad thing about all this internet traversing is that it reminds me constantly that I love to cook, but live in a horrid sharehouse where the hotplates are rusty and the cupboards don't close. Add to it, for reasons totally beyond my comprehension, the total lack of counter-space because everything lives outside the cupboards (plates, cutlery, pots, pans, food) and you have a kitchen not fit for cooking.
Also, I still do not own one of these:
Come to think of it, I don't own one of these either.
Source.
But now is not the time for my plaintive wailing about how much I hate renting in Sydney and sharehousing in general. You know me: I'm not one to complain...*
Today I was reading a Swedish food blog, because I am cool and that's how I spend my spare time, and I came across this post. It's about a cookbook called "Längtans Mat". It means the food you long for (though the title of the translated book is Very Swedish).
Reading about it made me long for oven-baked salmon with dill and new potatos. I longed for lingon-berry jam. I longed for mulled wine and pepparkakor. For rosehip soup. And most definitely crayfish with crusty bread and hard cheese. And pea soup with pancakes on Thursday. Meat-balls with brown sauce. Salmon. Sandwich cake. Salmon. Princess tart. Salmon. Jansson's temptation. Salmon. Pearl sugar. Salmon.
I longed.
But most of all I longed for a better kitchen that isn't in a horrid sharehouse, because I own this lovely cookbook, and never, not once, have I cooked anything from it.
*Obviously the time for my plaintive wailing was in the previous paragraph. Pay attention.
In my trawling through the internets over the last many months, something has become very clear to me. I love food, I love blogging: it all makes sense to me now. The link lists of Tuesdays with Dorie and Daring Bakers are an absolute goldmine of procrastination and food porn. Also, I just love Bakerella and Pioneer Woman. I love them and I want to go and make sweet pastry love with them right now.
The sad thing about all this internet traversing is that it reminds me constantly that I love to cook, but live in a horrid sharehouse where the hotplates are rusty and the cupboards don't close. Add to it, for reasons totally beyond my comprehension, the total lack of counter-space because everything lives outside the cupboards (plates, cutlery, pots, pans, food) and you have a kitchen not fit for cooking.
Also, I still do not own one of these:
Come to think of it, I don't own one of these either.
Source.But now is not the time for my plaintive wailing about how much I hate renting in Sydney and sharehousing in general. You know me: I'm not one to complain...*
Today I was reading a Swedish food blog, because I am cool and that's how I spend my spare time, and I came across this post. It's about a cookbook called "Längtans Mat". It means the food you long for (though the title of the translated book is Very Swedish).
Reading about it made me long for oven-baked salmon with dill and new potatos. I longed for lingon-berry jam. I longed for mulled wine and pepparkakor. For rosehip soup. And most definitely crayfish with crusty bread and hard cheese. And pea soup with pancakes on Thursday. Meat-balls with brown sauce. Salmon. Sandwich cake. Salmon. Princess tart. Salmon. Jansson's temptation. Salmon. Pearl sugar. Salmon.
I longed.
But most of all I longed for a better kitchen that isn't in a horrid sharehouse, because I own this lovely cookbook, and never, not once, have I cooked anything from it.
*Obviously the time for my plaintive wailing was in the previous paragraph. Pay attention.
God, I tell you, though these last couple of weeks have been hectic, somehow I've managed to fit in an absurd amount of absurdly good food. And wine. I love saying absurd. Anyway.
Mediterranean-style tapas (I realise that's somewhat counter-intuitive), Brazilian BBQ, herb crusted barramundi. Oh my.
Best of all though, last weekend Lauren and I went to the Good Food and Wine Show. It was sort of like I died and went to heaven. Except with lots more people and a huge amount of cheese. And wine too.
I knew it was going to be a long day when it took us 30 minutes to move through the first 4 stands. The first 4 stands out of more than 1000. When we hit the Kahlua bar I thought we were in trouble, but that was before we found more cheese and the Finlandia vodka.
The draw card for Lauren, this year and last year, was Gordon. Despite his recent 90% drop in profit, she still loves that wrinkled old dude (and I'll admit, wrinkly though he is, he's not bad for an old guy...), and so we stood in line to take photos of him while he signed other peoples' cookbooks and shagged his assistant out the back. Well, we assumed he was shagging out the back: he was running 30 minutes late for the book signing. Oh, but we didn't take pictures of him shagging. I would have sold them to Today Tonight already and left the continent by now if those pictures existed.
Here is my obligatory shot of Gordon.
After that Lauren wanted to try and get him to sign her ticket but I was bored by then and wandered off. Also I wanted to hear him say fuck, but after a few mintues, where he patronised a man in a wheelchair, it became patently obvious that he was on best behaviour. How disappointing.
Thank god I did, because it was only then that I found the virginia ham stall and its neighbour, the gourmet sausage stall. Sweet jesus, I never knew how much I liked ham. And gourmet sausage. Or soft pretzels...they were next door to the sausage people.
Mediterranean-style tapas (I realise that's somewhat counter-intuitive), Brazilian BBQ, herb crusted barramundi. Oh my.
Best of all though, last weekend Lauren and I went to the Good Food and Wine Show. It was sort of like I died and went to heaven. Except with lots more people and a huge amount of cheese. And wine too.
I knew it was going to be a long day when it took us 30 minutes to move through the first 4 stands. The first 4 stands out of more than 1000. When we hit the Kahlua bar I thought we were in trouble, but that was before we found more cheese and the Finlandia vodka.
The draw card for Lauren, this year and last year, was Gordon. Despite his recent 90% drop in profit, she still loves that wrinkled old dude (and I'll admit, wrinkly though he is, he's not bad for an old guy...), and so we stood in line to take photos of him while he signed other peoples' cookbooks and shagged his assistant out the back. Well, we assumed he was shagging out the back: he was running 30 minutes late for the book signing. Oh, but we didn't take pictures of him shagging. I would have sold them to Today Tonight already and left the continent by now if those pictures existed.
Here is my obligatory shot of Gordon.
After that Lauren wanted to try and get him to sign her ticket but I was bored by then and wandered off. Also I wanted to hear him say fuck, but after a few mintues, where he patronised a man in a wheelchair, it became patently obvious that he was on best behaviour. How disappointing.
Thank god I did, because it was only then that I found the virginia ham stall and its neighbour, the gourmet sausage stall. Sweet jesus, I never knew how much I liked ham. And gourmet sausage. Or soft pretzels...they were next door to the sausage people.
I love taking pictures of ferris wheels. I think they're supremely photogenic and stuff. But would you believe I've never ever been on one ever in my life?!
It's true. I've never been to the Armidale Show either, so that could explain a few things. Not entirely though, because I know I've been to the Easter Show, and I'm quite sure they have ferris wheels there, so somehow I've made it a long way without ever going up into the air for half an hour on a big wheel. A large cantilevered wheel, in case you were wondering.
I've always wanted to make out with a boy at the very top. Isn't that just the bees knees. And come Paris and London (because I will go on two ferris wheels to make up for their absence in my life thus far) I will get my way, come hell or high water. Is that the right saying? I don't know. All I do know is that the boy doesn't stand a chance.
It's true. I've never been to the Armidale Show either, so that could explain a few things. Not entirely though, because I know I've been to the Easter Show, and I'm quite sure they have ferris wheels there, so somehow I've made it a long way without ever going up into the air for half an hour on a big wheel. A large cantilevered wheel, in case you were wondering.
I've always wanted to make out with a boy at the very top. Isn't that just the bees knees. And come Paris and London (because I will go on two ferris wheels to make up for their absence in my life thus far) I will get my way, come hell or high water. Is that the right saying? I don't know. All I do know is that the boy doesn't stand a chance.
I know I might have holiday on the brain, but lately when I read about deadly air crashes, the first thing that springs to mind is my next island get-away.
And by the way, inappropriate placement aside, SMH really needs to get rid of those talking video ads. I keep getting sprung reading the paper in the office.
And by the way, inappropriate placement aside, SMH really needs to get rid of those talking video ads. I keep getting sprung reading the paper in the office.
As we speak, all over town camellias are bursting out of their waxy little green sleeping bags. I'm quite sure that's the technical term.
Near the coffee cart at UNSW, which I frequent bi-daily (although I have been trying very hard lately to reduce my caffeine consumption...) there is an entire wall of camellia tree-bushes that are going crazy with flowers. As I walked home late the other night, I got right into that garden and pilfered myself a little handful of the lovely things, and I didn't even get chased down by a security guard. Not even once.
These are not those flowers. These flowers are from the Chinese Garden, and I didn't dare to even look like I was considering stealing some of them. That would have been far to un-zen.
And sure, these aren't even camellias, but they are lovely anyway no?
You should go to the Chinese Garden, it's extremely tranquil and full of lovely things. And also you will see British tourists dressed up as Chinese...
...at least they can't get sunburn in that get-up...
...and if you're very lucky, you will see this man...
...with pigeons on his head.
Near the coffee cart at UNSW, which I frequent bi-daily (although I have been trying very hard lately to reduce my caffeine consumption...) there is an entire wall of camellia tree-bushes that are going crazy with flowers. As I walked home late the other night, I got right into that garden and pilfered myself a little handful of the lovely things, and I didn't even get chased down by a security guard. Not even once.
These are not those flowers. These flowers are from the Chinese Garden, and I didn't dare to even look like I was considering stealing some of them. That would have been far to un-zen.
And sure, these aren't even camellias, but they are lovely anyway no?
You should go to the Chinese Garden, it's extremely tranquil and full of lovely things. And also you will see British tourists dressed up as Chinese...
...at least they can't get sunburn in that get-up......and if you're very lucky, you will see this man...
...with pigeons on his head.
