There is a red, heart-shaped spa bath in the master bedroom of 6 Wolomina Court. Not in the ensuite. Not behind a frosted glass screen. In the bedroom, on a raised plinth of black marble tile, roughly an arm’s length from the end of the bed, positioned so that whoever is in the bed has a clear, uninterrupted view of whoever is in the tub. So we have to ask the obvious question: is that a cuck tub? Because it has every hallmark of a cuck tub. This house has a lot of love in it. It also has, judging by that tub, a lot of love in it. More love than a lot of houses could reasonably handle.
Let’s go back to the start, because the tub is not where this story begins. It begins on the driveway.
Three white horses rear up in the middle of a circular brick planter in the front yard, holding a three-tier fountain on their backs, the kind of fountain you normally only see outside casinos and 1990s wedding reception venues. Behind them, six white columns hold up a pediment with a medallion in the middle. A balustraded balcony runs the full width of the house. The ground floor has three garage doors, each one arched. There is a white ornamental fence across the front that looks like it was ordered from the same catalogue as the fittings in an adult shop, and frankly, after the tub, we’re not ruling it out.
Then you walk inside, and it gets more.
The entry hall goes up two full storeys. The front doors are carved timber with leadlight ovals, set under a fanned glass arch, and a crystal chandelier drops from the landing above into the void. The staircase is turned timber, every baluster lovingly shaped. Through an arched timber door, a second landing is framed by two marble-look columns, because one set of columns at the front was not going to cover it.
Upstairs is where the furniture lives, and the furniture is tufted blush velvet with gilt-carved trim. All of it. Armchairs, two-seaters, three-seaters, a chaise, all arranged across a sea of cream floral carpet with the swirling enthusiasm of a 1970s reception centre. There’s a plaster ceiling rose the size of a wagon wheel, a crystal chandelier dripping from the middle of it, Corinthian columns, a timber-clad bulkhead and a carpeted step up to an upstairs dining room, which has its own upstairs kitchen. That’s right, the upstairs has a kitchen. You can live an entire velvet-upholstered life up there and never once come down.
If you do come down, the ground floor has a whole other house going on. There’s a honey-timber kitchen with granite benchtops and leadlight glass cabinets, a lounge with cream leather recliners and a rug big enough to need its own postcode, a dining room with an Everlast sticker on the door, and a rumpus room with split-face block walls, a woven cane ceiling and slate floors that leads into a curved-glass sunroom with a bronze eagle lamp on the table. It is more retro furniture than you could point a 1970s stick at, and that is before you count the display cabinets.
Gardening, meanwhile, is not a big commitment here. The front is pavers. The back is concrete, then a pergola, then more concrete, then a tennis court, then a pool with a slide, then a spa, then a big shed. There’s a strip of synthetic turf near the back door that is technically the lawn. The whole outdoor area is big enough to host a small concert, and the spa is right there for the after-party, though we suspect the after-party has traditionally been upstairs.
On paper it’s six bedrooms including a study, three bathrooms, parking for three, and 671 square metres under roof once you add the verandahs, balconies and shed. It isn’t for sale. It has been, and it might be again someday. Until then, it stands on its cul-de-sac in Greenwith, horses rearing, fountain flowing, red tub gleaming. It has seen some times and heard some stories, and it is still standing after all of it.
Good for it. Some of us couldn’t say the same.
