Confessions of a fresh-air fanatic

Everybody has their little fixations, those habits or convictions that can annoy the hell out of other people. Things that we all believe are absolutely the normal way to do or see things, so that we are incredulous, or at the very least surprised when others don’t agree and think we’re the weird ones.

One of mine is fresh air. I am a fresh air fiend, a fresh air fanatic. Maybe because I grew up sleeping on a verandah at home and in a freezing cold, unheated, draughty dormitory at boarding school. Or maybe it’s the Celtic blood that runs in my veins.

Whatever the reason, I find it almost impossible to sleep if the room is stuffy, even if it’s the middle of winter. After my family had spent three months in tents, travelling around the remoter parts of Western Australia some years ago, it took me a long time to be reconciled to sleeping in a house. I felt claustrophobic – weighed down by the sturdy roof between me and the night sky, insulated by the thick layers of floor between me and the good earth.

I am still happiest sleeping on a verandah, under the stars or in a tent. And not one of those little round hike tents with everything zipped up tight either. A tent with windows that open all around, so it’s almost as good as being out of doors, or a one with the fly off and mosquito netting the only thing between me and the elements.

I have been known to reject perfectly good, air-conditioned hotel rooms because they had no opening windows. One of my favourite things about the office I currently work in is the fact that it has an opening window – a rare privilege in the CBD. Granted, the air outside is hardly Alpine fresh, but I often throw it open and lean out, just because I can.

At home, I am obsessed with opening doors and windows at night to cool a hot house, throwing them wide the instant a cool change hits, leaving them gaping even when it could sensibly be considered dangerous to do so.

Until a couple of years ago, our bedroom was insufficiently ventilated (in my opinion). One of the most romantic birthday presents my husband has ever given me was a window that alleviated this. Right next to my side of our bed, south facing to catch all the cooling breezes, he installed a little sash window he had picked up second hand, which matched our 1920s house. Now I can drift off to sleep in our airy bedroom, a cool breeze blowing in my face. Bliss.

The thing with fixations is that they become, as fresh air has for me, not just a taste preference, but almost a moral issue. I have to pull myself up when I enter a hermetically sealed room, to stop thinking its inhabitants are of dubious character. I know it’s nonsense, but to me fresh air, oodles of it, stands for all that is natural and free, clean and bracing and energetic.

I suspect that lots of people find our house freezing. We don’t use the heating much, even when the weather turns chilly. Maybe there are people out there whose ‘thing’ is warmth and cosiness. Who find my place cold and uncomfortable. It takes all sorts, I’m sure. Just don’t ask me to sleep unless there’s a howling gale rushing past my ears.

Comments

[Rod]

I agree with you; I know it too. Your thoughts caused me to wonder whether that feeling is related to our primordial fear of being entombed? But it is more than fear. It's about being wholly human. I like to be able to see out of a building as well. I like to go barefoot just to feel the earth - I never feel quite free wearing shoes. And being in the garden in the fresh air, hands in the earth are necessary elements for human wholeness for me. Are all these things related - fresh air, seeing the sky, touching the earth, immersing oneself in water? We're getting close to sacraments here!