Coffee Helps

So the central heating has died. Kicked the bucket, breathed its last, given up the ghost, had it, popped its clogs, ceased to be: stopped. I add these words and phrases not for your entertainment, but to emphasise the grim finality of the situation with which I find myself encumbered. Basically, it is cold at Hails’ House.

The Landlord called round while I was at work and left the following note:

It seems fairly detailed, but in essence all he said was silly woman, you don’t have enough oil.

Flashback to Saturday night, when the heating stopped working and I realised that someone had stolen my carefully rationed oil. After much why me?ing and driving around the garages of Ballymena, I obtained an emergency 20 litre drum of oil, clambered on top of the oil tank, permanently damaged my back by hauling the drum up with me, and emptied some of the oil into the tank (and the rest of it down the sides and around myself. I was actually a highly flammable substance last weekend). Exhausted, I crawled back into the house, switched on the heating, and – hooray! – it worked. I then got 300 litres (the minimum they’d supply and the maximum I could afford) put in on Monday morning. All was well, and I had also proved that I am not a helpless, clueless woman who can’t solve practical problems.

So, to rejoin our initial tale, the heating has died. Just stopped altogether last night. The Landlord says the boiler is fine and it’s perfectly simple: put more oil in. Kind of makes my £127 from Monday a bit redundant, I feel. Anyway, He Who Brings The Coffee (either taking pity on me or unable to bear any more of my Why me?ing) came round tonight, having declared The Landlord to be a ‘dipstick’ (Topical Insults R Us) for saying 300 litres makes no difference. He clattered about with spanners and torches and things for a while before announcing that:

(a) there is plenty of oil,

(b) the boiler is ‘dead as a dodo’, and

(c) he was going home to the heat.

And so another cold night is in store for Hails, Sister and Kat. He Who Brings The Coffee is directing me to his Boiler Man in the morning, and I can only hope and pray that said Boiler Man does not give me a £200 bill for telling me that I don’t have enough oil.

Filed under: cold, confusion, freezing, friends, heating, landlord, woe