The Heart of Darkness

I glanced up at the first floor and paused as I trotted up the steps. Alice is ready to go into Wonderland. This one looked promising, I thought, I will enjoy this. It had an unremarkable front, a narrow, dark shop window with a door to one side, empty for years, boarded up and now used as storage. Like so many people, it becomes more interesting the deeper you go and the better you get to know it. All right, it is not a person, it does not have a soul, it is an inanimate thing - but the minds that conceived it and the hands that made it so long ago had bodies and souls, and built it lovingly, with skill and care, and it remains as a monument to their ruined age; hundreds of years ago. In some ways, it does have a soul.

Behind the ordinary Victorian shop front on the main street, it stretches back, and back - a large house built around 1600 for a merchant's family, his business and his goods. One side faces its own city yard, with private access to the river and the vanished barges full of goods, the other blind, massive stone wall guards the occupants from the neighbours. The ground floor and gable is all severe stone and tiny little bricks, worn by the weather, the many chips out of the quoins speaking of carts and wagons passing a little too close - but even the damage has worn down with the years. The upper floors are brick, with moulded brick window mullions ten bays long, some with the remains of lead cames and glass in them, set into wrought iron frames. An uneven, steeply pitched, dormered tiled roof frowns over the whole.

I approached the yard door, a studded, oak-planked affair in a heavy, moulded frame with a merchant's mark on a plaque above it. I unlocked the padlock and shoved the door open - it moved reluctantly against grit and debris on the floor. The smell of damp puffed out, with an undercurrent of dry rot, the cancer of old buildings, or so many believe. If you have never smelt dry rot, it is difficult to describe - it is a dead, rotten, composting smell, with a note of mushrooms and absolutely unmistakeable. A huge number of buildings have it, mainly due to inappropriate modern methods of repair and maintenance - carry out DIY repairs to an old building at your peril!

There is something about decaying old wrecks I adore. The faded magnificence. The redundancy of the huge fireplaces, the tall broken chimneys in every possible pattern of brick - octagonal, hexagonal, patterned with scrolls, diamonds, candy twists - ending in tops blackened from four hundred years of wood smoke - then the fires went out and the stacks got cold, moved slightly as they did so and created new and fascinating crack patterns in the massive walls below. I love examining the structure exposed by the patches of lime plaster fallen out, heavy as ceramic pottery, smashed to dust on the oak flooring. Looking up into one of these holes, I can see the guts of the building; moulded joists, which were covered by plaster as fashion changed in the 18th century. I am the first person to see them for two hundred and fifty years. I love the thought that this is the low point, and I am here to make the first resuscitation attempts to bring the thing back to usefulness and life.

Standing there gawping, of course, is a chilly business, and I had a survey to finish. It was cold outside, but like a fridge in there - the damp, still air had not been disturbed for years and the massive masonry seemed to exude cold. And another thing - the smell of dry rot was getting stronger.

I moved up the staircase to the top floor, the attic rooms built originally for children and servants, all exposed oak framing and dusty plaster. The dormer windows had been boarded up, so I put my head torch on, and shuffled slowly forwards, making notes on the condition of the oak framing. The roof has diminished principals and clasped purlins, a labour intensive 16th century method of roof support. I pondered over it lovingly, admiring the tight pegs holding the joint together, still good after all this time.

The next room joins the much later, Victorian roof of the shop at the front. There is an awkward junction between the two, some 19th century Mr Bodgit has had a good time in here - bits of oak, softwood and bolts everywhere, a clashing cacophony after the harmony of the beautiful structure behind me. As I ducked through the low opening, I gagged. The smell was appalling - powerful, overwhelming, of dead, rotten, damp timber. It was so strong I hardly dared to breathe.

I moved forward, carefully. The light of my head torch feebly lit the front of the attic space, and where the slope of the roof met the flat floor I could see a mound of something. I approached, cautiously. My torch shone on the biggest fruiting body of dry rot fungus I had ever seen. It must have been two feet across, and hung off the rafters and joined the floor in the angle of the roof. Dry rot usually looks like a brown stain, with a lighter border spreading over the floor, or forms cuboidal cracks in timber which it turns into dust, but this, this was something else! The very words, 'fruiting body' described the swollen, spore ridden, glistening thing perfectly. I was at once repelled and fascinated. The hairs on my arms prickled and I began to feel sick, but I simply had to get closer. I fully expected the thing to leap up and grab me, but it just sat there, a quiet menace. It reminded me of the Elephant's Foot at Chernobyl, the remnants of the melted reactor at the heart of the concrete sarcophagus that encases the awful ruin.

What had caused this semi-sentient thing? Simply, lack of fresh air. The eaves of old roofs are open, to allow air to flow over the roof timbers and out the other side. Stick your head into a loft space, and it should smell fresh. Someone, a few years ago, had blocked the airflow. Warm air from the rooms below condensed in the attic, making the timber slightly damp. Not wet, just a little damp. There is nothing dry rot likes better than damp coupled with stagnant air. Given that, it will grow, and grow....feeding on the timber structure until all that is left is dust.

My nerve broke. In my haste to get out before the fruiting body 'saw' me* I grasped one of the rafters. There was nothing to hold. It disintegrated into foul smelling dust. The whole roof was a ghost of a structure, no strength left, still standing by habit alone. I fled.

*I know, I know! Daft isn't it? But alone in a large, empty, ancient, dark place with a living, almost alien thing, my imagination ran riot.

Ladies Who Don't Lunch

A rare weekend off - by that I mean I didn't spend any of it working, looking at buildings or thinking about buildings. Instead, I indulged my second love, food. Like Guvnor Gadget I enjoy cooking, especially with the added pleasure of a nice bottle of Aussie wine on the side.

Duck a la Alice

Slow roasted duck (courtesy of a local farmer), the skin pricked and rubbed with salt; served with orange sauce (OK - very 1970's - but I was thinking of Gene Hunt as I was cooking it). The bottle behind the duck contains a very nice Masala, great for adding to hot roasting tins to get of all those lovely gloopy cooked-on bits; the soul of any sauce or gravy. On the side, I did sprouts, spiced roast parsnips, roast potatoes in duck fat, carrots with cumin and butter and another bottle of Aussie Merlot. Heaven. Sheer bliss.

Some time ago, I was on the road with two colleagues, I will call them Jim and Rob, going to survey several buildings a client was thinking of buying. We were in three separate cars, as Rob, the 'boss' had a dog, and simply would not leave the damn thing at home, and the last thing Jim and I wanted was to end up stinking of dog and covered in hair. He wasn't really the boss, but we were helping him out. As the client was his, and we were most likely going to make a suitable amount of money, he called the tune, if you like.

The morning dragged on, it was cold although at least it wasn't peeing with rain. As you know from past posts, dear reader, winter means surveys. Summer means stuck to a computer in the office with the blinds down.

After visiting two buildings with a lengthy journey in between on the dreadful tracks they call roads in this part of the country, I suggested we break for lunch. Jim agreed.

'Oh, I don't do lunch' said Rob. So, no lunch, not even a cuppa. I finally arrived home, desperate for a cup of tea and large amounts of food, at five thirty, when it was too dark to continue surveying.

The following day, Jim and I insisted we stopped for lunch - it was cold, wet and depressing so we practically threatened strike action unless we were fed. We stopped at a really lovely country pub, with proper armchairs to flop in whilst reading the menu, and a real fire. The food was lovely; simple pub food of the best kind. I had ham, egg and chips - the ham was thick, juicy and cut off a real joint; the egg had a deep yellow yolk which spoke of happy hens scratching in the grass under some trees; the chips were fat, chunky, uneven, golden and made from King Edwards or some other proper, floury, chipping potato. Jim had a mackeral with mustard sauce, and from the silence whilst he ate it, it must have been sublime. Rob decided on fried haddock and chips. He kept up a constant mutter about how he 'never did lunch' and 'he wouldn't be awake during the afternoon' and 'I am a quarter of a stone overweight, and this will ruin the diet'. I looked up from the delicious ham for a moment. 'Quarter of a stone?' I said, looking at his belly protruding from his jacket. More like three stone I said with my expression. Then I looked pointedly at his plate. And why have fish and chips when there is salad on the menu.

At lunchtime the following day, which happily was the last, Rob drove off and told us he would meet us at the next site in an hour. Jim and I had another nice lunch, not quite as good as the last one, but satisfying none the less.

There is nothing more miserable than those who 'don't do lunch' on a cold, wet, winter's day.

What Not to Wear

Tight jeans and wellies? No. But if not, why not? What can an architect wear, bearing in mind all the different roles we play?

Consider for a moment, a normal day in the life of Alice.

8.30am (earlier in the summer - I tend to hibernate in the winter).

Switch on computer, still chewing a bit of breakfast toast and jam. Go through all the messages. Does it matter what I am wearing? No, as no-one can see me down the telephone or through the computer. Jeans, faded sweatshirt and slippers are the norm; with loo-brush hair and no socks. Comfy, slutty and absolutely no effort expended.

9.30 am

Time to visit a prospective client. On goes the client-impressor clothes, the posh, shiny boots, the black, pinstriped Gap trousers, the white embroidered blouse I got three years ago from Next and of course, the black jumper. On top of that, my smart black jacket. I complete the outfit with a clipboard, pen and black, Architect On Site shoulder bag. I wash the car. Nice and shiny, but not too flashy, if you know what I mean.

One thing I am always aware of is that seeing a male client on my own carries certain risks. I am as careful as I can be, but make sure I look smart but not in any way provocative - no tight trousers, no make up, poloneck jumper or shirt well done up without a hint of cleavage, smart and rather severe jacket (or coat, if it's cold). So far, I have only had a very few uncomfortable moments, and have managed to extricate myself without being seriously mauled. A cold, slightly arrogant and professional manner usually helps in these circumstances.

11.30 am

Time for the site inspection - the building has been topped out and I must inspect the roof tiling. I know it is going to be muddy, it is raining and I will have to climb a ladder and crawl through a window opening to get to the first floor. I pull off posh trousers and jacket, and don black jeans (baggy ones, not tight, please note), a heavy waterproof coat, my wipe-clean shoulder bag and gloves. Once there, I take off the posh boots and put on my huge, heavy and filthy site boots with the steel toecaps; the ones you cannot drive a car whilst wearing. On top of the coat goes a fluorescent tabard; a hard hat completes the rather fetching ensemble.

Many years ago, as a baby architect, I was visiting a site with an older colleague during the builders' lunch break. It wasn't our site, but my colleague had a crate of beer for the builders, a gift from a grateful client they finished working for the month before. We were offered tea and mince pies (it was near Christmas), and settled down on an assortment of chairs in the warm, comfortable, steamy mess room. It was actually the front room of a very large building in the city centre, in the process of being renovated and turned into offices, and it had a huge fireplace, all ornate curly stone and a vast, black, spiky grate and dog. The builders had lit a fire, using offcuts of timber, to warm the room and it was at once soporific, very cosy and difficult to leave. Yes, it was freezing outside, and we had spent the morning taking levels on a vast area of broken concrete, soon to be new apartments, not far away. We were in no hurry. Both of us were wearing the usual site gear as described above and were thoroughly muddy and dishevelled.

Half way through the second mince pie, a young woman came in, looking like a page from Vogue. She was wearing a very smart coat that is like a cloak (don't ask me what they are called) with a brooch fastening at the front; a shining fall of polished hair and high heeled boots. She was an architectural technician, and was followed by the architect, a ginger, pallid fop in tan cords and long black coat. Silence fell. The foreman lumbered to his feet, wiping his hands on his trousers, before leaving the room with them.

Ten minutes later they were back, covered in muck and dust, the woman looking like a frightened hare. Her boots were filthy and there was a great splat of mud up her front. She had fallen over whilst being told by the foreman to get her site boots on. Everyone gaped at her and shifted uncomfortably. I stifled a laugh - the contrast in so short a time was extraordinary. She fled in the wake of the architect, almost in tears and dropping bits of paper on the way. One young bricklayer carefully gathered them up and left them on the table. 'She'll learn, this time, I'm sure...' he muttered. Apparently it wasn't the first time she had arrived in completely unsuitable clothes. So there is the lesson - dress for the job.

12.30 pm

Soaked, cold, dirty and knackered, I am back in the office with a mountain of paperwork to fire at the builders I have just seen. Throw off the wet jeans and put on posh trousers again - I have to see a colleague later and although he would quite understand me wearing jeans, they are just covered in red brick dust and wet as well.

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As you can see, dear reader, I have changed my clothes three times, and it is only just lunchtime. I have to be all things, smart, workmanlike, professional, ready to climb scaffolding, stand in the wet and cold, meet new clients, meet colleages and sit at a desk all in one day. You may have noticed that the one thing I havn't mentioned amongst all the clothing is a skirt.

Well, no. Try climbing scaffolding in one. Or standing around in the horizontal sleet, trying to take measurements. Or keeping a male client's eyes on your face, rather than your legs or chest. There is no place for a skirt in Alice's world!