Second Best

The inner west certainly knows how to seek out trash and turn it into treasure… but are we the only region living and breathing this refreshing view on pieces of the past?

I purchased an original 1960s plant stand in South Melbourne during a lunch break this week. It was cute, well priced and I loved it straight away. I was with a bunch of work colleagues who giggled at me as I tried to get it on the tram to take it back to our Southbank offices.

There were loads of questions from everyone: “You actually paid for that?”, “Why did you buy that?” “What is it?”, “What are you going to do with it?”

No one really understood the plant stand or the fact that I had paid $20 for a ‘rusty piece of metal’.

I thought I was sitting on a pot of garden gold.

I carried the stand through Southbank on my way home, dodging the judging stares while trying to avoid cutting someone’s arm with the rusty leg. When I swiped my Myki at Flinders Street, I became an awkward mess as I juggled my laptop, handbag, magazines and lunch box with the plant stand. 

The Myki Man shook his head at me begrudgingly and let me through the wider access point.

I took the plant stand on the escalator down to the Laverton train platform and found a spot out of the way to stand with my retro treat. A kid kicked it accidently and kept walking like he had accidently kicked an empty can.

My train to Yarraville arrived and I hopped on with the stand and instantly felt eyes on me. A woman offered me a seat and asked me about the stand. “Where did I get such a fine piece?” she asked. A fellow passenger piped in, “how much did you pay, they’re worth a bit?” I told them my story and they both nodded in appreciation. The people around me were interested. One man even picked up the stand and inspected it closely. $20 wasn’t bad they all agreed. They were aware of plant stand love. I was on the right train home.

What is it about people of the inner west who love and adore vintage, recycled goods and self-made fare? I know it’s not just me.

Looking around our local suburbs are some of the greatest second hand lands from the classic favourites: Vinnies in Newport, Salvos on Koroit Creek Road, Savers in Footscray, Green Collective in Yarraville right through to the treasure hunters gem box: One in a Mill in Newport, The Lost Ark Restorers Barn in Willy, the kooky vintage store on the corner of Princess Highway and Barkly Street, just down from the grave stone maker, and my favourite, the eccentric Diamond Dogs vintage clothing store in Seddon.

But it’s not just second hand stores that are embraced by the inner west. Walking my pooch around the neighbourhood is like watching house porn. I take note of the recycled restored furniture on porches, the veggie patches thriving in front yards, the sound of chooks clucking in the backyard, the baskets hanging on fences offering free rosemary/lemons/limes/figs/oranges you name the season, there’s always something available. I look for the anodized planters, the metal trikes, the letter boxes created with recycled tin in the shape of a kookaburra, the church pews, the macramé hangers, the house numbers spelled out in letters, the vintage door knockers and umbrella stands. I love them all.

The Inner West Buy Swap Sell Facebook group now has over 20,000 members, most of which enjoy looking for a bargain or selling items to make money. There’s now even an Inner West Vintage and Retro Facebook group which offers great second hand treats at great prices, but you have to get in quick as someone’s trash is always someone’s treasure. Retro gems are picked up in seconds.

Are residents inspired by each other? Or are there other people out there like me who enjoy the hunt, the storytelling and the surprise of finding such a cool, unique item that means so much straight away?

For me, it’s always about the hunt. When I step into Diamond Dogs I’m immediately attracted to a pattern or a style that stands out and I hope and pray that it’s in my size (there’s never two when it comes to vintage, unless you find bookends).

When I case my local op shops, I head to the crockery looking for small indoor plant pots (my latest obsession). In the past it was vintage trench coats and mod dresses, nowadays it’s Richard Scarry books and bib-n-brace.

It doesn’t matter what your second hand treat is, whether it is a chair, a pouffe, a cane magazine holder or a cement frog statue, the best part about a retro find is how you came to find it. Perhaps you brought it home on a train in peak hour.

I’d love to know your favourite retro hang out.

Fabulous photos by Paul Large.

This article first appeared in The Westsider December 2015 issue.

Once Upon a Time in the West

I love tiny objects, tiny discoveries, tiny treasure. And we all know the inner west is full of them. Walking around Seddon and surrounds I’m always intrigued by the secret tiny lane, opposite the station, that leads to a brass Buddha’s head, to the colourful and oh-so-nineties Simpsons graffiti located on a wall behind Gamon Street; the tiny top of Marge’s blue hair peeking above the fence line.

You don’t have to look too far to find the tiny libraries scattered around the suburbs, sitting on fences, waiting for little hands to reach in and discover magical stories, or for mum’s like me to find a light rom-com or a Mills and Boon raunch fest.

So what are all these Little Free Libraries doing around our neighbourhood?

A community project which started in the US has made its way to Seddon, Yarraville, Newport, Kingsville and beyond, treating local residents of all ages with access to free books in exchange for a book of their own. It’s as simple as take a book, give a book.

Not only does this concept encourage reading, it also shows trust and an element of sharing within a community.

While the Free Little Libraries are that: little, the books inside are not just for the littlies. I discovered crime novels, cook books, diet books, biographies of forgotten sports stars, theories of getting rich quick and, my favourite, a picture book on Roger Moore produced in the early-eighties. I grabbed this beauty off the tiny shelf and replaced it with Tom Wolfe’s Bonfire of the Vanities. I thought it was a decent swap – strong tans, power suits, gold pinky rings and all.

There are almost 25,000 Free Little Libraries in the world, each one encouraging literacy and promoting the love of reading in communities. I found three in my local neighbourhood but I’m sure there’s plenty more to be discovered.

I encourage you to switch off the TV today and journey around the west to score yourself a free book to read in the sun. Don’t forget to replace it with one of your own and share your favourite tales with a new friend. Perhaps write a message in the cover and make a new buddy?

Keep an eye out for your local Little Free Library, some of which look like dollhouses attached to a fence. These tiny colourful gems are dotted around your neighbourhood just for you to discover.

Here are a few of my faves:

5 Hobbs Street, Seddon.

Grab a book and sit on one of the many free swings lining this beautiful street.

183 Somerville Road, Yarraville

The fence alone is a treat to admire. A great selection of current crime novels.

Hedgecorner, Corner of Hansen and Nesnah Streets, Kingsville

This Free Little Library has its own Facebook page. Search Hedgecorner for updates on book avails.

Become a Little Free Library supporter or member at http://littlefreelibrary.org/

This article first appeared in the November 2015 issue of The Westsider.

Photos by Paul Large. 

More Than Just A Milk Bar

It doesn’t matter which store you enter, they all have that familiar soft bell chime the minute you push open the door.

I find it fascinating that even today, in our world of online shopping, fast food, cheap milk and bread, and Status Quo waving big foam hands around, we can still find the classic milk bar on the corner or a corner nearby. And I encourage you to discover your local!

The inner west is filled with classic corner stores boasting shop counters and shelves filled with interesting items from coloured pens to raspberry licorice, mints to hair ties, toilet rolls to onions, the item you have gone in to find is usually there. Milk Bar owners, most likely living above or behind the store, seem to have a knack at having the right ‘last minute’ items you need ready in stock. 

Perhaps it’s because they live and breathe the store 7am-8pm, 7 days a week.

But besides from the highly sought after milk, bread and newspapers, these familiar stores can offer so much more, you just need to pretend you’re a child again.

Stepping into one of my favourite inner-westie milk bars located opposite Williamstown Beach train station, I’m always thrilled to purchase one of the homemade dips or other Lebanese goodies from the counter: cabbage rolls, dolmades, tabouli.  Add to this a sweet treat such as a baklava, Queen’s Finger or a Bird’s Nest and you have yourself a pretty impressive beach picnic. You can’t go pass the kebab though, the spiced minced lamb delight complimented with pinenuts and a dob of this Milk Bar’s special hummus is something to keep going back for.

The Milk Bar on the corner of Ovens and Stephen Street in Yarraville is just as special. This local gem has a glorious display of freshly packed mixed lolly bags placed in a neat grid-like pattern on the counter. There’s 15 lollies in every bag (choc buds, freckles, snakes, teeth, pineapples and milk bottles) and it’s hard to resist picking up a pack for your pocket as you purchase your paper.  

It’s touches like this that make every Milk Bar unique. A point of difference, whether it is the homemade goodies for sale, the ‘vintage’ Tazos on display behind the counter or the brilliant retro-esque signage screaming Mirinda, Kirks, Tarax, Tab Cola, Gobbledock, Ruffles, Smiths, Peters. 

There’s something fun about rediscovering candies from your youth that would make your eyes pop: Big Boss, Fags (now called Fads), Zappo, Hubba Bubba (remember when bubblegum used to be 50c and you’d get a free tattoo?).

Milk Bars are still a step back in time – the worn linoleum grey-marbled tiles, the timber and glass counters, the signs unashamedly advertising tobacco, the cans of Tarax lemonade in the fridge. Next time you walk past one, look up and check out the sign display most likely stating that ‘Tobacco’, ‘Cigarettes’, ‘The Herald’ or ‘The Sun’ can be found inside. Take a peek at the fonts used in the familiar words MILK BAR. And poke your head inside, there’s treasure to be found. Grab yourself a Killer Python and a can of Pasito to snack on after your Saturday afternoon lawn mow.

My favourite Milk Bars

Zac and Jenny Take Away Milk Bar, 74 Railway Crescent, Williamstown

Forget lugging an esky on the train, pick up awesome Lebanese goodies for the perfect beach picnic.

TT Milk Bar, 204 Somerville Road, Kingsville

Great selection of Kirks drinks to align with your fish and chips bought next door.

Milk Bar, Corner Ovens and Stephen Streets, Yarraville

Cheapest toilet paper and tissues around.

Milk Bar, 87 Anderson Street, Yarraville

Excellent lolly counter.

Photographs by Paul Large.

This article first appeared in The Westsider, October 2015 issue.

Bricks and Mortar of Melbourne

They’ve been labelled the ‘Ugly Duckling’ of Australian architecture, but I am fascinated with post-war cream brick houses of Melbourne.

Moving to Melbourne from country Victoria when I was just 17 I remember thinking how foreign these houses felt. I had grown up in Victorian-esque houses from the 1890s with massive wrap around verandahs, embedded history, creaking boards, fireplaces and ghosts.

The first time I ever stepped into a Cream Brick was to ask my elderly neighbour, who  lived next to my crappy Richmond rental, if I could please have a lemon.

The lemon tree with its painted white stump stood pride of place in the centre of the trimmed lawn, surrounded by a garden edging of yucca-like plants with the leaves braided towards the middle. It was always fully laden when in season. My neighbour gave me a 4 litre ice-cream tub of lemons, as well as fresh rosemary, a jar of sandwich pickles and tomato relish with a red checked fabric top cut with pinking shears. I didn’t understand a word she said, except “too skinny, you eat. Eat.”

Years later I moved to Yarraville and was thrilled to bits seeing two immaculate cream brick houses at the end of my new street, sitting tall and proud like twins in pressed sailor suits.

Both houses had fully formed rose bushes standing strong, vibrant and pruned in the front yards. The driveways were washed every weekend and the footpaths swept within an inch of their lives each morning. The nonnas in each house had so much pride, working hard each day in their floral aprons and knits buttoned to the neckline. I had so much admiration and respect for these beautiful houses and their widowed homemakers.

Then, as life goes on, one of the nonnas passed away and quickly we saw a for sale board go up, then slashed with a SOLD sticker. It sat like this for a while. The neatly trimmed lawn grew weeds and became patchy. The rose petals fell apart and the thorns grew thick. Rubbish blew into the driveway from the footpath and the brick fence started to crack. Some kid tagged the real estate sign, then the letterbox, then the fence. The decorative stone concrete porch started to sink and the house number lost a screw and flipped on its bum. Someone knicked the letterbox. I couldn’t believe how much the house deteriorated in just a few months.

One morning my son and I walked past and a digger was sweeping its bucket right through the front curved corner window, ripping the house guts out and pulling out a wall which had built in laminate shelving still attached to it. On our way back home just an hour later, the house had been demolished, piles of bricks lay across the block. The fully laden lemon tree out the back had been bulldozed and there was a strong smell of citris, but because of all the dust, it smelled like Airwick. Lemons lay across the ground like a war-zone.

But what punched me right in the guts was seeing a ceramic fish with a soft pink and mint green glaze lying amongst the rubble. The fish must have been sitting on the shelves when they were ripped out.

Three three story townhouses will be built on the block, complete with carspaces, artificial grass, hired artwork, and ‘pops’ of colour. They will look pretty and shiny and will sell for over a million dollars. We will have new neighbours to meet and hopefully new kids to play in the street.

There are two cream brick houses remaining on my street. Will they be there in 20 years time? Who knows? While they are still standing I’m going to take advantage of the stunning hospitality of my elderly neighbours and share garden produce and tips on pruning roses while they enjoy watching my son grow and water their gardens wearing just his nappy and gumboots. 

Photos by Paul Large.

This article first appeared in the September 2015 issue of The Westsider.

Dinorarium

Someone once told me that to cure worms you need to wave a torch light in front of your bum at midnight, while holding a Boston bun nearby. Apparently the worm is drawn to the light, but makes his decision to escape your body from the sensational delights of the sweet bun.

I think about this all the time when I see my son scooting around the house. Running, crashing, burning, jumping, smashing, wriggling like a worm. Does my son have worms? Has he been spending too much time with Cheef Dog?

The Welcome Mat

The inner west has only been home to me for four years. When I told my inner Eastern suburban pals that we were moving to the west, they had great concern for me: “But you don’t do drugs? How are you going to get to work in the City? We will never see each other – Yarraville is hours away from Richmond, I will have to catch a V-Line.” And so on.

It was weird only knowing a handful of people in this new pocket of Melbourne we had barely visited before we bought our house. We renovated our shack, got knocked up, had a baby boy, then started sorting through the mountains of stuff that we had held onto for years, not knowing what to do with it all.

Rocco's Role

I’m greeted by a friendly ‘ciao’ when I enter Rocco’s Delicatessen. The store smells good, like a home cooked meal. Rocco smiles at me and there’s a definite twinkle in his eye. Everything about this place is familiar, like I have stepped back to a moment in my childhood.

Rocco and his wife Adriana opened their store in February 1977, 38 years ago. The store is full of reminders of the past, from the vintage signs behind the counter reminding you to purchase a TAB cola or how you can be a mod while smoking a Virginian Slim, to the family photos behind the register and the sound the door makes when you open it.

Miniature worlds lead to an urban CWA

I have to admit, being on maternity leave sometimes feels like every day is a Saturday. I have found that having a kid means that I am more likely to go out and explore my local hood. And it just so happens that today is a Saturday, a rainy one at that, and go out and explore I did!

I have been pretty pumped for the annual Bonsai Festival since I heard about it a couple of weeks ago. Alfie and I got up early knowing that the first 100 visitors to the festival would receive a free maple bonsai (it's more like a stick, but I'll give it to Reg to get all creative with).

Hankering for sausage

I woke up this morning with a hankering for sausage.

My buddy Miss P and I had a plan to take our babes on a pram trek to the amazing (and hidden) Rocco's in West Footscray. However, a quick look at the weather chart showed that the morning would be a glorious 22 degrees but the afternoon promised a good saturation. So a car trip it was.

Reg and I discovered Rocco's when we first moved to Yarraville following a heads up from a foodie pal. From the outside, the joint looks just like a regular old school milk bar with the potential for a sensational 1980s-esque lolly counter. However, upon entering you are instantly taken to a sweet-as Italian deli filled with glorious treats all to the familiar sound of the classic milk bar door chimes.

Old and Newport

Today I took the boys down to the Newport Folk Festival on the train. I love Newport for three reasons: the Vinnies, the bakery and the library. But today I found a couple more excuses to visit this cute suburb.

Folk Festival in the park

Each time I visit Newport I visit Sammy's bakehouse. This middle eastern bakery makes the best range of sweet bagels that I have ever tasted. My favourite is the custard bagel which at only $3.50 is totally worth the embarrassment of it leaving a mess around your mouth.

Amazing custard bagel

I have mentioned the Newport Vinnies several times in this blog because it is seriously one of the best op shops in the area. The store is colour coordinated and has a very high turnaround.  If you like retro goods or just a treasure hunt, you could spend hours in this place (and I did today).

Home stretch and stretchy pants

Today I walked in the front door of our little house and realised that we are totally on the home stretch. Our house is looking freaking tremendous.

It's been a super busy week for me running around picking up lights, glass, breast pads (I had no idea what these were until this week) and lighting cables, that I had to take some time out today to get my chill factor on and rest. It's also been a big week for me as yesterday I realised that at 35 weeks pregnant I can no longer wear high heels. Heart broken.

So here are the treats that have taken place since the crapolo birthday on Tuesday that has been officially moved to Easter:

Our toilet arrived. I knew Dougie would come in with the goods. It's not the toilet we originally purchased (Reece made a boo boo) but it's a toilet all the same and it arrived in my birthday week. Therefore, I received a toilet for my birthday and I AM SO HAPPY. Not sure when it's being installed yet.

Here's our little toilet, all boxed up ready for a good sitting.

Fishy feasts, flooring and freakin' hot weather

Our roof is going up tomorrow. ROOF!

The majority of our pad has an original tile roof, but the new addition at the back will have a hot new tin roof minus the cat.

This is huge for me. As a fan of Lego construction and serious dollhouse set up, I understand that it's super important to get the structure right and then BAM! you can start to make things pretty within.

Neenish tarts and happy hearts

We don't mind the word tart here at home. We use it regularly, fondly and loosely.

Hearing the word makes my pregnancy hormones zing, almost making me burst into tears through emotional giggles.

So during the week when Johnny Kettle mentioned my new two favourite words Neenish Tarts, I squealed, ran out to the building site and screamed WHERE?

A pregnant pause above a deep hole and check out what Rhonda donated!

So I may have freaked out Todd and Gio... just slightly.

The other day during lunch break I mentioned to the boys that they may have to drive me to hospital if the baby decides to come early. I didn't mention (but I'm sure they will read this) that they will have to hold my hand while I'm screaming until Reg gets there, and if the bub decides to be born on the side of the road, then they will have to deliver it.

Terror-rariums - a bathroom delight

So we are thinking about recreating a scene from the 1959* cinematic version of Journey to the Centre of the Earth as a terrarium in an alcove above our bath in our planned bathroom.

Filling a house with finds

We totally scored on Day 4. You might see this as a pile of junk, but I see it as miniature stories filling my baby brain with tales of little lives running around in our tiny house before us.

The treats found under our floorboards