Georgian houses and elevations go together like a horse and carriage. Like figs and cream cheese, like pink and orange, like… (it’s too early for poetic extrusions).
I find these so pretty, even though they’re not hand-drawn and rendered by some fine-fingered, high-dreaming soul.
See that portico? That’s the one which is leaning away from the building, as if offended, with birds nesting in the roof, and columns that are opening into a network of expanding holes, like Colossus got angry one night at the pub and mistook them for his punchbag. The one that might collapse on the heads of some tourists snapping away with their cameras, or some hapless bride and her groom having their shots done. ( “The marriage was a short but happy one”). The one that Housing are terribly concerned about but which never, quite, gets propped.
And the rear:You can see at the back how the originally open verandahs have been enclosed to make kitchens and bathrooms in times of multiple occupancy, using windows snitched from elsewhere in the house. That tall, thin window with the rounded top was originally in an odd sort of ante-chamber to my study, and will be returned from whence it came.
The furthest-jutting block at the back was originally twice as long, with balconies and French Windows, but Sydney Harbour Trust summarily chopped it off one fine day to make room for a lane. They must have been in a hurry because they forgot to tie the new wall in with the rest of the house – hence the rather scary-looking subsidence.
Time to go. I find myself suffering from acute hyphen-fatigue.