Tentatively Tasmanian

It is the middle of winter here in Hobart and you’d think, as an Australian, I’d be aware of this. But after twelve years of living in Switzerland and nearby France, we left there in early June on a sunny 24C day and arrived in Hobart to 8C.

No problem of course. We ensured that our suitcases were full of Craig’s work clothes and lots of warm stuff. Jackets, thick socks, trakkie daks, hoodies and ugg boots.

Having lived previously in country South Australia, Adelaide, Melbourne and Darwin, Hobart’s more southernly location means that the days are shorter. Much shorter. The weather chap on the telly informs us that sunrise will be at 7:40am and sunset at 4:40pm.

We can partly blame the latitude for that and Kunanyi (Mount Wellington). It dominates the city and when the sun glides behind it, puts most of the Eastern side into earlier darkness. I was powerwalking one afternoon at 4:15pm and could barely see the track in front of me, and worried that passing cyclists would not be able to see my bulky bod plodding along in a dark coat. Those high-vis jackets might not be a bad idea here.

Short days aside, the houses are cold. DAMN cold. We are currently renting in Moonah, a 1920s weatherboard that clearly has no insulation to speak of. There are two fireplaces in the dining room and the living room, but our landlady has instructed us not to use them as some previous intellectual amoeba had taken a burning log out of the fireplace and placed it on the wooden floor, leaving an awful black scar and a hole to the ground below. I’m sure this does not help with keeping the icy cold out.

We are to use the reverse cycle air conditioner that has been installed high on the wall near the ceiling, directly above the open alcove that separates the dining room from the living room. What this results in is the hot air traveling to the back of the kitchen and the cold air from the cavernous dining room rushing in to greet us. To feel any real warmth, the best place would be by the back door, crouched on top of the washing machine. Believe me, I’ve thought more than once about placing my laptop there.

The landlady has instructed us to do only cold washing which is fine by me and better for the environment but in this arctic Air BnB there is no dryer. We have two clothes horses to drape our damp loads on, ‘helped’ only by the reverse cycle that is determinedly blowing its welcoming warmth in completely the opposite direction.

The windows are single glazed and the walls are wooden. I wear three layers of clothing and usually type these blogs with numb fingers and fog coming out with every breath. After returning from my power walk, I try to keep the heater off until at least 3pm, when the sky darkens and the cold seeps in. I hope that our landlady won’t freak out at her next electricity bill but shivering and aching in a not-cheap Air BnB is not a load of laughs. It may not be sexy, but my socks now stay ON when I get into bed each night.

Craig’s work clothes are in the second bedroom, because our room is too small to accommodate them. We refer to it as ‘The Tomb’ because of its frigid temperature. After his shower, he dresses in record time to get the hell out of there and I fancy I have heard a few high-pitched squeals as he nakedly dances about trying to get sorted and avoid frostbite. He has accused me – me! – of being too bossy whenever I bellow ‘SHUT THE DOOR’ every time he leaves the living room.

The winter here has also changed my, er, grooming regimen. Maybe I should subtitle this blog ‘Hirsute in Hobart’ because I do not want to spend any extra seconds naked shaving, shaping, plucking or waxing. No. I’ll just stay unkempt and try to convince myself it’s adding a tiny extra layer of warmth.

Don’t worry, I won’t discuss such intimate matters any further: we’ll move back to the safe topic of this house. In a move that will change our landlady’s response from a mere freakout to alarm and rage, we have figured out a better heating solution. There is a small electric panel in our bedroom and one of those ancient double bar heaters above the mirror in the bathroom. If these are switched on at the same time as the futile reverse cycle, and the doors flung open from these areas, the heat seems to circulate a bit better, so that our three layers, ugg boots, hot drinks and blanket on the lap are enough to make us relatively comfortable.

Living costs are high here and my trips to the supermarket are scary ones. How can a plain, smallish round pizza base cost seven dollars? I search through the specials and peer at the per 100g/unit costs and tell myself that I’m losing weight because chocolate and other fun stuff adds too many dollars to the tally. At the bottle shop, I also peer at the ‘clearance’ shelf and am startled when some bottles are the ‘bargain’ price of $45 dollars.

With this in mind and interest rates seemingly being increased every month (except this one so far), electricity and gas costs must be terrifying. We won’t find out until we move into the house we bought after settlement in August.

It has ducted heating in EVERY room as the previous owners hated the idea of being shut in one space and freezing in another. This appealed to us, as European apartments are uniformally warm. The bill, on the other hand, no doubt will not.