Tiny house movement: I've lived about as small as you can get and it sucks

By now, everyone has heard of the living small movement, where zealots move into ludicrously tiny homes, the size of a wheelie bin. Such people usually have designer eco-bags, boiled-wool beanies, and an unhealthy interest in Tim Flannery. “I’m clamouring for a more basic connection to the universe,” whined one owner/builder in a documentary on the subject, running off to order a turmeric latte.

The homes they build look pretty, in the same way that doll houses look pretty, but they aren’t terribly practical. For a start, there’s not enough room to hang the 65-inch, 4K Sony. Ditto finding space for the double-door Liebherr refrigerator. And better get used to storing your Yamaha jet-ski under a tarp.

I speak from experience, because I’ve lived about as small as you can get; and I’m not talking about the studio apartment I once rented in Elizabeth Bay.

But first a bit of background.

For those readers, not old enough to remember, there was once a TV dating game show called Perfect Match. It was hosted by the gnomish Greg Evans and his robot sidekick named Dexter. As far as entertainment goes, it made The Bachelor look like a MENSA convention.

I was a contestant on that show in 1985. Back in those days I was stick skinny and had bleached white hair, so I looked like a cotton bud. Dexter declared that the winning girl – let’s call her Milly – and I had a compatibility score of minus-a-million. Greg Evans thought differently, predicting, “great things”.

Anyway, Network Ten sent us away on a weekend to Noosa, where I soon discovered that Milly was a fervent Seventh Day Adventist, with a penchant for discussing the end of the world and the coming of the new kingdom of God. 

Still and all, she was attractive, and I…wasn’t, so I stuck with her, and to hell with the looming apocalypse.

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It all went downhill in Noosa. Photo: iStock

To say it was a torrid relationship would be underselling it. At the time, we were living with my parents at Umina, and they became jack of listening to all the arguments, especially as they had their own domestic disputes to go on with.

And so, in a fit of rage, my father told us to leave. 

Having no fixed abode, and unable to afford a hotel, we threw some camping gear in the back of the car and headed west.

We ended up in the small historic village of Hill End, five hours west of Sydney, between Bathurst and Mudgee. We set up our tent in the local campground, then went out to explore our new home.

Living in a four-square-metre tent for months was an exercise in extreme minimalism, long before Engelen Moore made it trendy. On the plus side, there was heaps of cross-flow ventilation, and we saved a pile of money, not having to buy furniture, art and whitegoods. On the negative side was the complete lack of privacy, zero insulation, no spa bath, or wine cellar, and the fact that we got wet when it rained.

Another negative was the neighbours. And not just the locals who shared one set of dentures between them. I’m talking about the other happy campers who would show up, pitch their tent right next to yours and play Cold Chisel all night. Newsflash: I don’t care if she’s crying like a refugee. I just want to get some sleep.

Living in a tent is surprisingly hard work. Much of our days were spent collecting firewood, baking gem-scones in the camp oven, airing out the sleeping bags, and foraging in the village for something to eat.

It snows in Hill End in winter. This is not the place to be shivering from the elements under a thin sheet of canvas. We bought a pile of blankets from St Vinnies in Bathurst but still couldn’t keep warm. By this stage, our relationship had devolved to the point where we had stopped zipping our sleeping bags together.

With winter came more arguments. Milly was convinced it was a sign the end was nigh. She had that damn right.

One night I went out with a brush and a can of paint and changed the village welcome sign to read “HELL End”. When she saw it, Milly was convinced it was the work of the devil.

“We have to leave,” she said.

“Ar-ma-geddon out of here, I quipped.”

And so, I threw the tent in the car, vowing never again to camp, or participate in commercial television. Small living? Fat chance.