By KATE HUNTER
Nothing illuminates personality differences like a flooded rumpus room.
It happened to us last weekend when most Brisbane families faced some kind of storm damage.
All over the city, couples were rifling through drawers, looking for torches and shouting, ‘You KNEW those batteries were NOT to be used for the Wii controllers!’
Thousands spent the evenings playing Scrabble by the light of scented candles purchased at school mother’s day stalls.
My husband Jim always knows where the torches are. He keeps a stash of batteries in a locked, but readily accessible box. Sensory overload from lavender candles was the least of our problems.
At about 3pm on Sunday, our rumpus room began taking water. This wasn’t a complete surprise – when we bought the house last year, a building inspector told us the lower level was ‘ineffectively waterproofed.’ That was fine, we were able to negotiate a little on the price.
Anyway, it’s a good old-fashioned rumpus room – unfashionable terracotta tiles, a ping pong table, a cupboard packed with dress-ups, sleeping bags and Barbie dolls in various states of undress. Nothing of value, nothing that can’t be moved upstairs in a matter of minutes.