Originally published by The Clifton Courier, June 19, 2019

I’ve gone off Queenslanders.

Of course, when I say I’m off Queenslanders, I’m talking about the traditional wooden dwellings, not the maroon-blooded people lucky enough to reside in this great state.

I had long held a dream of finding myself a home among the gum trees, doing it up real nice and living the country-chic life, flouncing around on my vast wearing linens and wooden beads, tea in hand. In this fantasy, the style of home has always been a Queenslander.

But after living in one for the past six months, I’m realising that I might not be the type of person best suited to a Queenslander.

Because, for someone who makes as much noise as I do, I value silence. I love total darkness of the night time. And, most importantly, I’m someone who needs to be able to forget that other people exist when I’m trying to sleep.

When your brain carries on like mine does, whirling around like a whipper snipper, you have to remove all distractions to get it to settle the heck down for bed.

Some would call me irritable, controlling or obsessive. But I just can’t sleep when there’s light shining in my eyes or a TV blaring or someone tinkering within earshot. I have to block all that out to get a decent night’s sleep.

And I’ve discovered that living in a dwelling that may as well have been constructed out of Paddle Pop sticks doesn’t make that very easy.

I grew up in a brick, ground-level house with cork tiles. It wasn’t bad – the floor was never cold of a winter’s morning and the colouring reminded me of Anzac bickies. But after watching far too many home reno shows where people worship original hardwood floorboards, I’d assumed they were the duck’s nuts. I lusted after them like 14-year-old me lusted after Adam Brody (the black-haired guy from The OC who was actually also in a great movie called Grind).

Sure, floorboards look great, but looks aren’t everything, people. Because suspended high in the air, these varnished timber slabs are noisy as all heck. No matter how quietly you try to tread across them, you still sound like a hippo thundering into the kitchen.

The walls aren’t much better. Again, the timber cladding looks bloody mint. But they may as well be cigarette rolling papers for how good they are at blocking out sound. If someone is stirring a cup of tea on the other end of the house, you’ll know about it.

But the worst thing about my delightful little rental is that all the bedrooms have these decorative grates above the doors, which is a wooden panel with intricate cutouts. And look, I appreciate the aesthetic value of these designs. It would have taken someone a lot of time to do them. But sweet baby cheeses are they impractical.

They let in the light. They let in the noise. They reinforce the inconvenient truth that I am not the only person who exists on this planet, which is not under my total command.

Recently, I’ve found that I’ve been unable to take it any longer. I took drastic action. And it makes me look real suss.

I stuck brown paper to the outside of the grate, covering it from the rest of the house. This makes it look as if I’ve got something to hide. It’s like I’m breeding salamanders illegally or fervently trying to locate the obscure members of early Big Brother seasons as part of a secret mission.

But I had to do this, because the brown paper hides the strings tried to the grille, which would have raised more questions.

You see, I’ve tied an old pillow to the inside of the grate, hoping the padding will block out the infernal sounds of life beyond the confines of my room. And it looks weird. Not only is the pillow brown and yellowy, but I’ve fixed it to the grille by having two long stiches on the top and one stich along the bottom. Unwittingly, I stitched an extremely off-putting face into the pillow, which glowers at me from above. I’ve posted a picture of it Instagram, but in case you’re not an Insta user, just picture a dirty, square cloud disapproving the heck out of you.

And that’s what’s above my door. That’s what I sleep with every night. It’s what I wake up to every morning.

I suspect being constantly judged by a sassy, sweat-stained pillow may slowly erode the scant remains of my sanity, but right now that’s my best option.