B is for boiler

B is for boiler, and comes under other domestic duties for the homebound spouse.

Someone, somewhere, responsible for the Law of Sod dictates that whenever the weather gets truly icy, the boiler has a hissy fit. Last night working perfectly, this morning - kaput. We have oil in the tank, albeit a greatly diminished amount due to recent cold and the thermostats are trying their best to indicate to the boiler that it's time to ignite, but it's not listening.

Donning kit fit for Scott of the Antarctic at 7.15 this morning, I went to investigate; trying my one trick, the automatic re-start button, I paused for effect waiting for the familiar roar to indicate success. Not even a sputter. The boiler repair-man isn't answering the 'phone, but I've left a message and am trying not to twitch each time I think I hear a 'ting' - at least I can switch on the immersion heater to guarantee a hot bath or two later in the day.

I show little patience with the offspring when they fail to light the woodburner without a firelighter, never failing to tell them how easy it is; how I've started campfires in the middle of the jungle using plenty of puff and a single bit of dried bark retrieved from halfway up a tree, and warning of Armageddon when luxuries such as firelighters won't exist. Today, I'm on their side. I have used the best part of the Sunday paper, quantities of kindling, half a box of matches, filled my lungs with smoke and all to no effect. The winds are swirling down the chimney, blowing pretty patterns kaleidoscope style, with the ash, and that will be my excuse!

The youngest is at home today and we have both taken shelter in the same room; our one electric heater near the ailing one and me wrapped up like the michelin man. Creative writing might be a little tricky with teen-tv in the background, so I've loaded the washing machine anticipating the need for the tumble-drier in an hour or so, when I can sit near it and write!

Roll on spring...