Two thousand years ago, King Herod stated ‘should a man construct a building which falls down and kills another, then this man should be slain’.
Today, we call it the Building Regulations. Although our enlightened government does not put you to death for not complying, the regulations themselves are becoming more and more stringent and less related to normal life.
I will give just one example.
To comply with the law, it is easiest to follow the 'approved documents' which set out, in what is supposed to be a simple and practical manner, ways to satisfy the demands. In 1985 the approved document was a slim volume. Now of course, owing to the need to give various spotty nits who form government quangos something to do, it is a labyrinthine, ponderous and impractical document split into parts A - P, some of these thicker than the original 1985 volume.
Part L is the killer. It is 'Conservation of Fuel and Power' which you would think is simple enough, bung lots of insulation in the roof, double glaze the windows....er, no. One, just one of the requirements is limiting air leakage - this means making sure that your new house can be pumped full of air without the pressure dropping. During the test, certain holes can be bunged up, such as key holes. Then someone moves in. They have a cat, so what is the ultimate in cat freedom? A cat flap. Then maybe a new letterbox as the door furniture the house comes with is not to their taste. Then an extra lock - you can't be too careful, you know. All these create extra holes, all nicely expelling that hot air paid for in fossil fuels and environmental disaster.
It doesn't take a genius to work out that the air test is a complete waste of time. Genius, however, is what the government quangos ain't got.
28 August 2006
19 August 2006
Happy Surveying
Ever looked at a derelict building and thought 'I wish they'd do something about that eyesore?' 'They' - well, often that's me, under instruction from the building's owner, my client.
Many of my projects involve what is known as 'refurbishment of an historic building' meaning an old wreck that has been abandoned for years and now someone has taken an interest in it, often because there is a grant in the offing. Repairs to historic buildings are expensive, certainly more costly than just knocking it down, or building a new one somewhere else, so to encourage people to look after our heritage, the government allocates money to local councils under various schemes (Historic Area Regeneration Scheme, for example). Whatever it is called, it is still money, enought to be attractive and will be awarded to the right projects.
This is where I come in. Grants are only available if a 'schedule of works' is drawn up by an architect, and priced by a decent builder (more on those later). The money is only released on a certificate from me, effectively saying that the builder has done X amount of work, worth £Y. The owner has to put something towards the costs, but often the grant can be substantial.
Before there is even the sniff of a grant, however, I have to carry out a survey. Basically I go and measure and inspect the building, draw a plan... hang on. Just think about it - measure and inspect the building. Sounds easy! Just look at that old wreck, if it looks that bad outside, what do you think it is like inside?
A small city centre house, charming (or was, once) little cottage and one of very few of its kind left (unsurprisingly empty - dwarfed by a huge office block and car park). The builder is there to pull off the boarding from the front door so I can get in. As he does so, a horrible stink issues from the blackness beyond, with a puff of dust. My torch shows a heap of white pigeon poo, at least three feet high. 'You really want to go in there?' said the builder. I didn't, but as it is my job, I had to. I put a mask on, which did nothing to keep out the smell, and climbed over the pile into the house. The staircase was a smooth ramp, a mixture of wet plaster and pigeon's doings; I had to kick holes in it so I could get up the stairs, adding to the stink and creating a choking cloud of plaster dust and feathers. You can catch some nasty diseases from birds, I thought.
In those days I was using a tape and rod, rather than a laser, which meant I had to go into every corner, across a sea of droppings, dead birds and rotten eggs. The building was boarded up and dark, so I was trying to hold a torch, a clipboard, pen and rod - of course they all got dropped and coated with white dust. There was a frantic flapping as the occupants tried to get past me to the hole in the roof.
I eventually emerged, after six hours. I went straight home as those in the office couldn't bear the smell. Into the kitchen, stripped off, clothes straight into the washing machine. Took off underwear and watched the fleas evacuate across the white tiled floor.
I could smell pigeons for days afterwards. They really are the airborne equivalent of rats.
Many of my projects involve what is known as 'refurbishment of an historic building' meaning an old wreck that has been abandoned for years and now someone has taken an interest in it, often because there is a grant in the offing. Repairs to historic buildings are expensive, certainly more costly than just knocking it down, or building a new one somewhere else, so to encourage people to look after our heritage, the government allocates money to local councils under various schemes (Historic Area Regeneration Scheme, for example). Whatever it is called, it is still money, enought to be attractive and will be awarded to the right projects.
This is where I come in. Grants are only available if a 'schedule of works' is drawn up by an architect, and priced by a decent builder (more on those later). The money is only released on a certificate from me, effectively saying that the builder has done X amount of work, worth £Y. The owner has to put something towards the costs, but often the grant can be substantial.
Before there is even the sniff of a grant, however, I have to carry out a survey. Basically I go and measure and inspect the building, draw a plan... hang on. Just think about it - measure and inspect the building. Sounds easy! Just look at that old wreck, if it looks that bad outside, what do you think it is like inside?
A small city centre house, charming (or was, once) little cottage and one of very few of its kind left (unsurprisingly empty - dwarfed by a huge office block and car park). The builder is there to pull off the boarding from the front door so I can get in. As he does so, a horrible stink issues from the blackness beyond, with a puff of dust. My torch shows a heap of white pigeon poo, at least three feet high. 'You really want to go in there?' said the builder. I didn't, but as it is my job, I had to. I put a mask on, which did nothing to keep out the smell, and climbed over the pile into the house. The staircase was a smooth ramp, a mixture of wet plaster and pigeon's doings; I had to kick holes in it so I could get up the stairs, adding to the stink and creating a choking cloud of plaster dust and feathers. You can catch some nasty diseases from birds, I thought.
In those days I was using a tape and rod, rather than a laser, which meant I had to go into every corner, across a sea of droppings, dead birds and rotten eggs. The building was boarded up and dark, so I was trying to hold a torch, a clipboard, pen and rod - of course they all got dropped and coated with white dust. There was a frantic flapping as the occupants tried to get past me to the hole in the roof.
I eventually emerged, after six hours. I went straight home as those in the office couldn't bear the smell. Into the kitchen, stripped off, clothes straight into the washing machine. Took off underwear and watched the fleas evacuate across the white tiled floor.
I could smell pigeons for days afterwards. They really are the airborne equivalent of rats.
16 August 2006
You're what?
'Hello' say I, shaking hands whilst trying not to spill wine down them. 'I'm Alice.' 'Hi - I'm John. What do you do for a living?' 'I'm an architect' say I. Various responses to this, with translations below:
1. 'Wow! Really? I didn't realise!'
(Doesn't look like an architect - where are the black clothes, cropped hair and silly glasses?)
2. Oh. I see.
(thinks 'I bet they did that awful estate at the end of our road. Hundreds of them. Just look at the extra traffic. I bet they live in a really nice house out in the country')
1. 'Wow! Really? I didn't realise!'
(Doesn't look like an architect - where are the black clothes, cropped hair and silly glasses?)
2. Oh. I see.
(thinks 'I bet they did that awful estate at the end of our road. Hundreds of them. Just look at the extra traffic. I bet they live in a really nice house out in the country')
3. Oh, yes, I think I've heard of you
(no idea who she is, but architects are really sensitive if you don't know who they are, arn't they? Did she do that horrible glass thing in the city centre? Oh, there's someone I know - I'd better get out of this quick)
4. That must be really interesting - do you work locally?
(probably did the drawings for the extension our neighbours had - it was awful and I don't know how they got planning permission. Even our neighbour doesn't like it much and said the architect didn't listen)
5. Oh - my son/daughter/ neighbour / friend is an architect.
(They did the plans for our extension. The other architects we approached were really expensive. Ours was half the price. Though the building costs were a lot more than expected...)
I wonder, from the non architect perspective - does anyone really know what an architect does? Or is?
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