Lofty Ideals

One of my favourite daily-work  pursuits is going into a roof space.

This can involve a full upper body workout in scaling near vertical loft ladders, a breath-intake squeeze through a hatch which may not be compatible to your natural body shape, a dusty crawl through the back of a cupboard in a dormer bedroom or a balancing act and a leap of faith from the top of my own portable ladders.

These activities are normally undertaken in an empty property and I have often felt it necessary to let my office know that I am entering the void and to contact the authorities if they do not hear from me in about 20 minutes. If I forget to let them know I have reached the landing again it can be interesting.

The initial stare into the dark can be intimidating but also very exciting. A fumble around the edge of the hatch under torchlight may reveal the luxury of an electric light switch and even better if it is wired up to a working bulb or fluorescent strip. Otherwise, it is just a concentrated beam that sweeps the far extremities to determine whether I stray beyond the comfort zone of the top rungs.

In our very materialistic world the recesses of a loft provide a very useful storage facility for redundant technology, vinyl records, boxes of surplus clothes and books, indeed all the now unwanted trappings of a functional 21st Century family life.

Go back, even just 30 years and many homeowners will not have required to go into the roof space other than to lag the water tanks, lay some insulation, chase the trail of a mouse or fetch down the Christmas decorations. A further 20 years back and most households probably boarded up the hatch opening altogether as they had nothing to put in it.

It can often as not be the domain of the man of the house. In asking the lady of the house about the whereabouts of the roof access this is usually met with the response that it is upstairs somewhere and that she has never ever been up there as her husband looks after it. This is a prompt for me to expect a potential stash of pornographic or car magazines, a fully functioning and landscaped train set, mini-bar and a beloved collection of old love poems or letters from former girlfriends.

My colleagues in London tell me that they do not bother to drag around ladders for loft inspections because in the expensive real estate market of the Capital just about every such space has been converted for residential occupation. I am sorry for them as they will not be party to that excruciating pain of ascending an aluminium ladder in stockinged feet following the insistence of the property owners that shoes must be removed upon entering to protect the carpets. I tolerate it as a form of self-inflicted foot massage but with no commercial or therapeutic applications whatsoever. In fact, having glimpsed one of those physiological diagrams of the pressure points on a sole of the foot I am probably, unwittingly condemning my kidney and spleen to unwanted attention.

Where the loft is in use on a more regular basis for storage or even a leisure pursuit there is a stowaway ladder to tease into a down position.

Releasing the spring action or magnetic hatch gives a couple of seconds in which to decide whether to run for your life to avoid being skewered to the floor by a tarnished metal extending spike or to work out what make, model and type of action is required to get it to work.  I have come across some marvellously intricate versions in 1950's houses and bungalows. These would not look out of place extending from the fuselage of the First Class section of a De Haviland Comet. A smooth, hinged, articulated movement, somewhat creaky from lack of lubrication of key points but a quality piece of equipment. The whole contraption slides down effortlessly and is custom made for the ceiling to floor clearance. It is a pleasure to feel a good solid footfall.

In contrast the B&Q or Wickes two section ladder could be made out of recycled Pukka Pie trays. In between these two extremes there can be a real cause for concern. A hybrid ladder, part Empire Exhibition and part DIY once trapped my fingers above head height and I had to twist and contort my body to get above the pinch point to release myself. Another light and flimsy ladder just folded at the mid point when I was at the mid point which was, some months later, still not amusing.

The step off from the top of the ladder is critical. If there are roof timbers to grab onto that is helpful but this is not always possible. An original loft space does not present too many problems in that the ceiling joists are all visible and in a pre 1960's property of reasonable and sturdy cross section of wood. Cover up the same with thick quilted insulation, chipboard sheeting or the formica panels from old wardbrobes and conditions resemble a minefield.

Touch rafter but I have not, yet, in all my loft excursions had the misfortune to fall through a ceiling or put my foot through but statistically I am well overdue. Caution is the key word and to be aware of a faint creak, a springiness or an unexpected lower level on the chosen path.

Obstacles are many through the roof space either loose or stack-boxed personal belongings or the regular horizontal cross collars which can be hurdled over in slow motion or limbo-danced under. The former can result in splinters in the groin area, the latter a complete covering of dirt and grime and abrasion of my bald patch.

The main aim of the activity is to get to the far end of the void and work back through the mental checklist of inspecting the structural pieces that make up the frame and covering of the roof. Torch in one hand and the other seeking handholds in a shuffling motion gives no scope to avoid the full facial attack by cobwebs, some active, some just in use as a longer term larder of flies and moths. A most unpleasant feeling.

In one rural cottage I was mystified by a sense of something else with me in the roof space.

I turned off my torch and there was a faint disturbance of the stagnant, dust laden atmosphere but when swept with the beam there was nothing to see.

This went on for a few minutes. Dark and there was  movement, lit up just still. I speeded up the frequency of on/off lighting and finally caught sight of the bat. I had not been up close to one before. A black, leathery winged mouse. Cute really.

More damaging visitors are squirrels who can nest and wreak having by chewing through electrical cables, insulation and laggings as well as leaving half a forest in the eaves. The droppings of mice are to be avoided but it may take a handful and an inquisitive sniff to realise that infestation is present.

Many things can be completely forgotten if placed in a loft.

I have mentioned discoveries to the homeowners who have been fascinated by such things as old newpapers from the year the house was built, six bottles of vintage wine, shop signs from their old family business, a bicycle, mannequins, ancient suitcases and shipping trunks and those now rarely seen Tea Chests.

I hesitated to retrieve a dusty diary whose contents did appear to confirm that the writer knew that their Uncle Jack was carrying on with his brother's wife and was anguished about it being too much of a damaging family secret to disclose.

I left the diary concealed behind the water storage tank where I had found it. In due time and after that house had changed hands a few times it would be discovered and simply regarded as a memento of personal lives in more innocent  times and not at all worthy of a thirty minute, shouty and confrontational feature on the Jeremy Kyle Show