Heat and cold. And water.
The story thus far, as told on Twitter.* With interpolations. We begin at mmmph o’clock, Monday night/Tuesday morning:
I HAVE NO HOT WATER
This was written (trembling) under six blankets, a duvet, and two happy hellhounds**, having just had a bath anyway.
Meanwhile plumber coming TOMORROW. Gah. Isn’t it too cold to get dirty, though? Too cold to STICK? (Note: hot shower at Peter’s)
It is certainly too cold for any freezable substance to do anything but go ping as it caroms off your parka/jeans/hellhound and clank against the iron ground—supposing it has successfully frozen. There is, unfortunately, a time lag problem. I have also long suspected that a lot of brand-name soft drinks are antifreeze with added food colouring. Arrrgh. Don’t go walking across school grounds in the dark.
And I FORGOT to have a shower at Peter’s last night before I came home. I’m STILL cold. . . .
The problem is that the first kettle of boiling water wastes itself warming up the sink. And then, having boiled the second (and the third, because there’s some kind of unwelcome algorithm about how fast half a sinkful of water cools off again) you still have to disrobe sufficiently to make use of your tiny precious steaming reservoir. Bathroom sink baths. No human over the age of eight months should have to do it this way.*** And I still had central heating last night. Yes, it’s on. It was 56°F/13°C in my bedroom (which faces east with nothing like trees or houses in the way and has the least benefit from the Aga) yesterday morning and I’m a miserable old wuss, I like indoors to stay in the mid 60s.
. . . Although that may have something to do w the plumber TURNING *EVERYTHING* OFF & THEN LEAVING, muttering something about a part . . .
This is when it starts getting surreal. The plumbers, of course, are getting baying mobs of emergency calls in this weather† and they fit you in when they can. They told me yesterday that it would be some time this morning. And I have hellhounds. And, today, Computer Men. So Peter came and house-sat for me while I gave hellhounds a shorter than usual sprint. The plumber came while I was out, of course.
. . . which it may take SEVERAL DAYS to replace. Helloooooo . . . below freezing temperatures here
What it took me a couple of hours to realise is that he’d turned the central heating off too. Raphael had been here, bringing good and bad news, as is often the way of archangels††, and I was a little distracted from the fact that my teeth were chattering. After Raphael left I rang the plumbers to ask if there was a reason the messenger of their gods turned off the heat? And I got an answering machine.
I turned the boiler back on again. And the immersion heater, which I hadn’t known I had, because it wasn’t, like, labelled or anything. There’s a big power switch that says BOILER. Then there’s another big power switch that says nothing at all. With all the big fat padded wires rushing around and in and out of various appliancy looking objects of various geometric-solid shapes enshrouded in much upholstery I thought it was some higher-level instrument of world domination that the mere householder shouldn’t touch. But the Plumber Who Turned Everything Off, before he turned everything off, told Peter that if I needed hot water I could use the immersion heater. Oh.
I AM SO NOT HAVING A GOOD DAY. Electricity popped off. Does this have anything to do w plumber turning central heating off??? Back on again
Or possibly to do with my rashly turning the heat on again? Or the Strange Noises that the immersion heater was making?††† All the gadgets in the house had to be reset, of course. Okay, that wasted a little time I could have spent worrying. The plumbers finally rang me back. They have no idea why The Plumber Who Turned Everything Off did so, but he has found a new whinklejammer to replace the old bust one so I have to forgive him. However he’s also driving back from St Frumentius and it’s a long way, ‡ and there’s going to be a fabulous mid-motorway pass, like the baton in a relay race, and some other plumber is going to bring the whinklejammer here and install it. But . . . today. He’s going to install it today. It’s going to be all done and over with today. Do you hear the Fates laughing?
Aaaaaand 1 of my impossible-2-buy-4-&-bday-9-days-b4-Christmas husband’s bday presents cancelled by bank card screw up . . .
One of the standard reasons given for eschewing Twitter is Twitter Spelling. I consider 140 characters a creative challenge.
. . . There was a knock on the door while I was sorting this out on the phone. Of course. And have I mentioned that I’m VERY COLD?
However . . . the non-delivery company driver didn’t run away‡‡ when he saw the door opening! I got my parcel! . . . Unfortunately it didn’t have anything to do with heat.
Plumber claims to be coming back *2day*, w new hot-water part. Hv turned heating back on but it hs long way 2 to go to get back 2 WARM.
It took hours. Why was it taking HOURS? Usually the central heating comes on really fast. You turn the little dial and there’s this satisfying muffled roar of Things Happening. Unh . . . ooooh. . . .
Aga will prevent hellhounds & me from dying of hypothermia, I assume. & have I mentioned my electric fire is dead?
I am so glad I have an Aga. It’s actually surprisingly comfortable, sitting on the floor with your back against your Aga, a book, and a framing brace of hellhounds to stop some of the draughts. Maybe it’s just that eye-of-the-storm sensation.
I NOW HAVE A DIFFERENT PLUMBER. WHO SAYS, HMMM. THIS IS NOT THE RIGHT FAULT. THIS IS NOT THE RIGHT PART. ‡‡‡
So. Yeah. The new plumber with the baton, er, whinklejammer, arrived, took one look at my boiler, another look at the whinklejammer, and stopped smiling. Yes, he said, the reason the central heating is not coming on the way it should is All Part of the Situation. Eventually he left again—taking the untouched new whinklejammer with him—and leaving what I assume is the old whinklejammer in a little pile of screws and washers. Someone will ring me tomorrow morning with further bulletins. Meanwhile . . . before the first plumber came I at least still had heat. I wonder if he fritzed my electric fire/space heater while he was at it? Just for fun? Just because he could?
I’m also getting extremely tired of taking everything out of the cupboard in the bathroom and putting it all back in again. And taking it out again. It’s the only cupboard in the entire house§, so it’s crucial, which is to say full. And I seem to have kind of a lot of pink pillowcases and rose-entwined duvet covers. Not to mention all the boring stuff like spare loo rolls and lightbulbs.
And yes, I could stay overnight at the mews. But I’m not going to. I still have an Aga, two hellhounds, and an electric blanket. Supposing the electricity stays on.
* * *
* Now that I know a lot of you don’t follow me on Twitter . . .
** The hellgoddess’ bed, both upstairs and twelve feet tall as it is, means that it’s always warmer than the stark, desolate hellhound crate in the kitchen, with its forty-seven blankets inside and its den-effect layers of bedspreads and tablecloths and one plastic garden sheet for protection from the indoor jungle, wrapped comprehensively around the outside. It’s true they have no reading light. Because I’m an unimaginative cow and don’t believe dogs read. Clifford Simak to the contrary notwithstanding.^
^ Although I don’t know that any of his dogs read, do they?
*** Adventure? No thanks. I’d rather stay home with my flush toilet, my hot baths and my reading light. But do send me a postcard.
† Most of whom do not have second and third houses.
†† This beautiful green planet is yours! And you’re going to wreck the sucker, you dumbasses!
††† But I have a strange, old-fashioned liking for washing dishes in hot water.
‡ It is indeed.
‡‡ Shouting, Hey! That’s cheating! is optional
‡‡‡ This is not your beautiful house. This is not your beautiful wife. . . . Letting the days go by, let the water hold me down http://www.lyricsfire.com/viewlyrics/talking-heads/once-in-a-lifetime-lyrics.htm
§ Old houses don’t do cupboards. Humanity apparently got (a) secretive and (b) materialistic about 150 years ago.
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