Visited Peter Stutchbury’s house on Clareville Beach which he built 25 years ago, which completely blew me away. It had the most profound effect on me of any house since visiting Ric Leplastrier’s own house across the water from there 11 years ago. I loved the youthful exuberance, the playful experimentation, and the joy that ripped through every aspect of the project. I loved the lack of fear, the letting go, the demonstration that modern architecture need not be neat, sanitised and chock full of pious restraint. I loved the trees growing through it, the outside bath filled with a garden hose, the hardboard finishes and the abundant life that spilled out of it. Sure, they have a different climate from us in the UK, but why the fuck are most architects so pathetically anal and obsessed with rigour, order, control, imagined and delusional logic – as if somehow those things WERE architecture… If I could ever do a building a tenth as good, with a tenth as much spirit, I’d be happy.