HEATING ON

Bloggiana has got herself into a great deal of trouble because at the holiday let which she runs - between blogging, hacking, drinking and smoking - she failed to spot a dodgy lightbulb. This meant that Mrs Pinched-Bottom, the incumbent at the time, became incandescent with righteous indignation and Threatened to Lodge a Complaint.

Now as all you chutney lovers will be aware, New Year 2009 got off to a jolly cold start. According to the man in The Times, the cold snap was due to the death of La Nina. (To which Bloggiana said I don’t give a tinker’s what the man in The Times says, it’s absolutely shockingly fucking freezing. ) Here in the frozen north, the cold snap had been going for some weeks and by the time Mrs Pinched-Buttocks came to stay, it was truly embedded in the bones of Our House. Indeed on the night after Hogmanay, we found ourselves sitting swathed in our duvets, fan heater ON, multifuel stove ON, central heating ON, candles LIT, hairdriers ON. In an attempt to shift the ice from the inside of our windows, I had decided to push the boat OUT and we even had the electric cooker ON and the lids on the Expensive Cooker UP. All this would be meat and drink to that saintly idiot who calls himself our bank manager – but Bloggiana and I were semi hypothermic by this point and when the tele-hecklers rang from Bombay to tell us we had exceeded our overdraft limit again, it was all we could do to get our lips to form the Go Away phrase which is our watchword on these occasions.

Rat-a-tat-tat. Bloggiana stumbled to the door, tripping over her duvet and cursing like a French mercenary. Rat-a-tat-tat. It was Mrs Pinched-Bodice. What? boomed Bloggiana as she opened the door furiously. Sorry to disturb you but are we expected to provide our own Toilet Roll? Mrs P-B asked. Bloggiana would have rolled her eyes back into her head as far as they would go - but they seemed to have iced up inside her sockets.

Half an hour later, rat-a-tat-tat once again. Mrs P-B brought a cohort this time so now Bloggiana – a pale shade of blue – was faced with an Embassy. What now? she asked in her best how-lovely-to-see-you-again voice. Sorry to disturb you but the central heating will not turn off. It was half-past ten at night and the moon was staring down on the Embassy as only a ten-below moon can. Why not leave it on then? Bloggiana suggested coolly.

The following morning, Bloggiana and I – not having died overnight, much to our surprise – were woken by a further rat-a-tat-tat. Now Mrs Pinched-Bottom had brought Mr Pinched-Bottom and two of their friends, Mr & Mrs Curled-Lip. Sorry to disturb you but none of the lightbulbs are working. None of the lightbulbs IS working, Bloggiana said crisply. And I don’t believe you. You are not sorry to disturb me.

And at this, Bloggiana pulled her duvet round herself, wiped the rim of rime from her upper lip and closed the door in a firm and some would venture unfriendly manner. Mrs Pinched-Bottom was left standing on the doorstep with her hands on her hips and her mouth agape. Mrs Bloggiana, she shouted, Mrs Bloggiana, if you don’t come and replace those lightbulbs, I will write to the agency and lodge a formal complaint. By this time, Bloggiana was deep beneath the covers. Through the permafrost, I could have sworn I heard the Old Girl whisper a neat and perfectly formed Fuck Off. But then again, maybe the cold had made me start to hallucinate.