But in winter, the wind blasted into the house, through not-so-charming cracks under and around the doors.
Last November, the night that Pres. Obama was elected, there was a gale. Up the coast, we have gales all the time, and we think nothing of it.
But this gale was special. It ripped the latch from the bottom of a French door, whipped the door open, and two panes of glass broke.
We were going to fix the door ourselves, but the door was buggered.
The husband boarded up the broken windows with plywood, and we lived with the windows like that for SIX MONTHS while our landlords tried to sort out a solution.
Hurricane windows. Ghetto chic.
Yes, we are the kind of tenants that landlords dream about.
The French doors were replaced, and we got a totally unnecessary new side door and new windows in the kitchen, the lounge and two in the bedroom. Double-glazed windows. Six of them!
So the husband has been hired on to clean up the frames and paint and such. We still have all the old glass and old frames scattered about the property. The husband insists all the rubbish might come in handy for something. Kiwis!