THE OLD DUNNY
Posted: Wed Aug 03, 2011 5:07 pm
There is no doubt that one of the inestimable luxuries that we enjoy in 21st Century Australia, is the flush toilet.
In my prepubescent days, our family lived in a mid-western suburb of Sydney and I took for granted, the convenience of the flush toilet.
That toilet wasn't yet positioned inside the house. It was half-way down the yard at the end of an all-weather concrete path and was housed in a brick cubicle covered by a tile roof.The walls were lined with a soft lime plaster, painted with pale green calcomine.
The cistern was a concrete tank, fixed nearly two metres up the back wall and when you pulled on a long dangling chain, the water rushed down a lead pipe to do the required flush.
Conveniently, there was a garden tap fastened to the wall just outside the toilet door for hygenic sluicing of hands. I was always a bit wary of the rafters and crannies in the brickwork because I was sure that these were colonised by killer spiders, only too eager to spring out and do damage to a young lad at his most vulnerable.
Of course, if you needed to do no. 1 in the middle of the night, there was an enamelled tin pot under the bed. For no. 2 requirements, you just had to wait until after " curfew " hours.
When I was 12, our family moved to a new house in an area north east of Parramatta, which was , in those days, semi-rural.
The loo there was also down the yard, in an unlined fibro cubicle with a tile roof, but this one didn't flush. It was a sort of sheet metal commode with a hinged lid which upon opening, revealed a black tarred tin. Over the course of each week, this tin gradually filled up with noisome human detritus until it disappeared; to be replaced by an empty tin.
I say disappeared, because the removal and replacement of the odious tin was carried out by the dunny man; a phantom figure whom I never laid eyes on or even heard.
We still had our chamber pots in operation then.
I didn't like the pan dunny. When you lifted the lid to use the seat, there was this dark space between the tin and the sides of the seat, which I imagined housed hordes of gruesome killer red-back spiders and hairy things. Before I took my seating, I would get a stick and scrape around the inside of the seat to dislodge any lurking horrid creatures. The thought of black hairy arachnid legs groping my ( in those days taut ) behind, was worse than the thought of venomous fangs.
The smell of the pan dunny didn't cause much concern, as I recall. There was some sort of deodorant product dangling from the wall, but I supposed we just got used to it.
Eventually, after about four years, the sewage system was connected and, luxury of luxuries, we got an inside loo.
Tipping out the pot in the morning was a chore we didn't need to do anymore.
I wonder what line of business the dunny man went into?.
In my prepubescent days, our family lived in a mid-western suburb of Sydney and I took for granted, the convenience of the flush toilet.
That toilet wasn't yet positioned inside the house. It was half-way down the yard at the end of an all-weather concrete path and was housed in a brick cubicle covered by a tile roof.The walls were lined with a soft lime plaster, painted with pale green calcomine.
The cistern was a concrete tank, fixed nearly two metres up the back wall and when you pulled on a long dangling chain, the water rushed down a lead pipe to do the required flush.
Conveniently, there was a garden tap fastened to the wall just outside the toilet door for hygenic sluicing of hands. I was always a bit wary of the rafters and crannies in the brickwork because I was sure that these were colonised by killer spiders, only too eager to spring out and do damage to a young lad at his most vulnerable.
Of course, if you needed to do no. 1 in the middle of the night, there was an enamelled tin pot under the bed. For no. 2 requirements, you just had to wait until after " curfew " hours.
When I was 12, our family moved to a new house in an area north east of Parramatta, which was , in those days, semi-rural.
The loo there was also down the yard, in an unlined fibro cubicle with a tile roof, but this one didn't flush. It was a sort of sheet metal commode with a hinged lid which upon opening, revealed a black tarred tin. Over the course of each week, this tin gradually filled up with noisome human detritus until it disappeared; to be replaced by an empty tin.
I say disappeared, because the removal and replacement of the odious tin was carried out by the dunny man; a phantom figure whom I never laid eyes on or even heard.
We still had our chamber pots in operation then.
I didn't like the pan dunny. When you lifted the lid to use the seat, there was this dark space between the tin and the sides of the seat, which I imagined housed hordes of gruesome killer red-back spiders and hairy things. Before I took my seating, I would get a stick and scrape around the inside of the seat to dislodge any lurking horrid creatures. The thought of black hairy arachnid legs groping my ( in those days taut ) behind, was worse than the thought of venomous fangs.
The smell of the pan dunny didn't cause much concern, as I recall. There was some sort of deodorant product dangling from the wall, but I supposed we just got used to it.
Eventually, after about four years, the sewage system was connected and, luxury of luxuries, we got an inside loo.
Tipping out the pot in the morning was a chore we didn't need to do anymore.
I wonder what line of business the dunny man went into?.