A LETTER FROM HOME.

Otago Witness, Issue 3867, 24 April 1928, Page 67

A LETTER FROM HOME.

By

Sheila Scobie Macdonald.

(Special for the Otago Witness.) March 6.

I am writing in my garden with the March sunshine streaming from a cloudless sky, against the blue background of which the pink blossom of a neighbour’s almond tree makes a splash of colour almost too good to be true. The petals are borne across my fence occasionally on little puffs of wind, fresh and keen, sent by way of reminding the too optimistic that we ought not to be revelling in summer time warmth and that March as a rule is even more violently temperamental than April. As well as the almond tree, I have a pair of thrushes and a cat to distract my attention. The former are building a house in someone else’s hedge, but Mrs Thrush fancies some feathers which I shook ‘out of an old cushion yesterday, and nothing her husband can say or do can prevent her securing them. Mr Thrush, poor fellow, is almost distracted with anxiety, as a monstrous tom cat is lazily sunning himself on the top of my back gate, and, on principle, he mistrusts all cats. Once in her agitation and fluster consequent on a false alarm from her husband, Mrs Thrush seized a pink petal in her beak instead of a feather and flew off with it. What if it should happen that, from such an insignificant cause, she should be the forerunner—the founder as it were—of new and up-to-date ideas in the thrush home. “My dear,” she may say, “ I like that pink note. It gives our house a .distinction it has hitherto lacked, and my blue eggs will be charmingly effective in such a setting.” Result, a domestic upheaval, and all because a March day was So exuberantly fine, an almond tree a welter of blossom, and a lazy cat sunning itself on a gate. It must be rather nice to have a new house like the birds every year, with no thought of spring cleaning to haunt one’s winter dreams, and no heartburnings or repinings and hopeful “ making do ” of things that clamour silently for the dustbin and oblivion, and stubbornlv refuse to respond to one’s best endeavours. So between the thrushes and the recollections of a long day spent yesterday at the Ideal Homes Exhibition, mv thoughts keep drifting to houses, and just why it is that the ideal house is always in the exhibition and never one’s own. Even people who set out to build one never really achieve their ambition. The whole world of London has been streaming through the gates at Olympia this week, and* curiously enough it is not the houses of the present that seem to attract ‘ the multitude, but the fantastic and frankly hideous and unhomehke monstrosity that is called e ‘ The House of the Future.”

What a place to call a home! To begin with, the building inside and out is composed of a shiny, slippery, silvergreen, horn-like substance, which forms a glittering background for different lighting effects. Even the curtains are made of a kind of silver rubber material, and the appallingly unbecoming clothes' of the inhabitants are either of this material or an equally hideous, supple, mauve coloured linoleum. Both men and women wear white shorts, are bare-legged barearmed, and bare-necked, and on their feet wear little rolled-over white socks and sandals. Heaven preserve us 1

. The house itself is built on-board-ship lines, wiith narrow passages and bunks instead of beds, and removable walls between rooms. There are switches and controls in every crevice and corner, and from a- general survey of the conglomerate discomfort, one can only presume that the home of the future will only be a shelter for the ultra violent ray and sun bath fiend. Even in the bedrooms, artificial sunlight gleams and glints on those sanitary, shiny green walls. You cannot

dodge the sun’s substitute for a moment. The designer of the house planned the greenish walls as a background for the different coloured lights which can be switched on at will. Should a woman, for instance, feel a “ violet ” mood approaching, she switches on the violet light and with no more ado her surroundings tone with her mood. Should it be a “ rose ” day, then in a moment her room is a rose too. A young man of perhaps two-and-twenty held forth at intervals on the mental advantages of such a lighting scheme, but an elderly woman, amid roars of laughter, interrupted his flow of talk by inquiring earnestly: But if I should be in a yellow mood and my husband in a violet one, what would we do about it ? ” The bright young man didn’t know ’ Incidentally the crockery is all of the carton variety, and is destroyed after each meal—a labour-saving plan which the least house-proud would deplore. An idea 1 must say which I do like is that the upper portion of the garden walls aie built in sections, each section revolving on a pivot, and all easily controlled by a hand-worked mechanism. Thus no matter in which direction the wind blows, the sheltering wall is twisted to resist it. In the house the beds are warmed by electricity-very nice in winter and I presume quite practicable in even modest establishments at the present dav. In accordance with the general scheme of the “ House of- the Future ” the Daily Mai] has published an edition of its paper dated January 1, 2000. It makes amusing reading. Two articles in particular intrigue me. One is headed “The Weather Again,” and reads as follows: ‘‘The Prime Minister has only herself to thank if she found the atmosphere of the House of Commons yesterday after ~ noon a little chilly. Chills, indeed, are? afflicting most members as tUe”result of the masterly incompetence with which? the weather has been mismanaged ever since the party took office. On Monday the incoming American mail plane was over four hours late, owing to an east wind having been permitted to gain strength. And on Wednesday the 2in of rain that had been ordered (and paid for in advance) by the Norfolk Farmers’ Union were discharged without warning ,^ !e midst of a civic function in Birmingham.” And again, “Cooking on Tap.” ** W°men will be interested in the facilities to be introduced next week for cooking meals in their own homes, especially, in view of the new craze for entertaining sma’] parties of friends under one’s own roof. Radiated heat from municipal factories can be tapped and concentrated round a joint of beef by households which have time for meals as opposed to nutrition tablets. . there are four settings—underdone, medium, well done, and crackling. A bell trflls when the operation is-completed. “ These home meals are all very old world and parochial, but they are becoming astonishingly popular.” (1 It was impossible to get away from the ultra violet ray ” craze, for the phrase met the eye everywhere. Even the house 1 loved and envied, " The Suntrap house,” was fitted with Vita glass, which is claimed not. to restrict the elusive ray, and the Daily Mai] was printed on sunshine paper of a most virulent yellow, and lettered in ultra violent ink! Blit, the Suntrap house was charming. JT 1 , its front door facing the corner of the land site, a clan both effective and nleasant. But oddlv enough, not even this prize-winning house had built-in cupboards to take the place of wardrobes in the bedrooms, a fact which struck me as rather extraordinary. The floor coverings for kitchens, passages, etc., were all new and most effective. One linoleum looked exactly like reel brick tiles, and wa« impervious to grease and dirt Nothing dropned on it’ left a mark—not even black Nugget shoe polish! It is ruined by wet. and all it requires in the way of cleaning i s an occasional wipe over with a slightly damp cloth. I was

enchanted with it—but alas! the cost. It would cost £6 or £7 to cover a kitchen 10ft by 9ft. But it was tempting. After I had “ done ” the houses I drifted to the gardens, which this year are specially beautiful. A distant vista of wooded hills and stretches of water has been painted as a background, so that there, is no feeling of space restriction or of being indoors. In addition, a rippling stream runs through the gardens, and a waterfall splashes realistically in the distance. Carter’s exhibit was wonderful, chiefly azaleas, and a variety of primus called Triloba—a lovely pink thing that called forth loud admiration. There are two varieties: the bush and the standard. I fell for the latter, in spite of the fact that I haven’t a square inch of spare space to contain it, or any right to spend so much on it. But a man beside me was ordering six—three of each kind —and I simply couldn’t bear it. So that was that, and to-morrow my Primus ti iloba will arrive, and must be given a welcome.

So many people—men mostly—were buying what I call domestic lumber, gadgets designed to save labour, but all liabb to attacks of cussedness when they are wanted in a hurry. Thus a toasting fork, which at the same time is a corkscrew and a tin-opener, has no attractions for me, for I know that when I want to toast bread in a desperate liurrv some morning my labour-saving device will ins.st upon opening a tin, and that only, or vice versa. No, gadgets don’t appeal to me any more than black or pink or yellow baths, all of which can be had at Olympia. Come to think of it the thing I liked best at this year’s exhibition was the Prunus triloba, and if it settles down -'.and seems happy; I shall even think kindly of the man who designed the (/■ House of the Future.”