Cold water...

I had a call from one of my Binland colleagues yesterday morning, complimenting me on my blog.  Well, this was a lovely start to the day, and in conversation we pondered as to his pseudonym, should he reach the giddy heights of a mention.  After much thought, I have decided that henceforth, he shall be known as Brains.  This is purely because he works in the Technical Department and is not based on any facial similarities with the character on Thunderbirds.  

Unlike my side of the business, he works with people who are highly intelligent (no offence to my lovely Binland colleagues), and who have a good understanding of what the Periodic Table is all about.  Apparently, it's not just something printed on a tea towel which kids buy for their mums after a school trip to the Science Museum.  It's so much more...

Anyway, he was very kind, and said that he found it hard to believe that I fell into, and I quote, 'that age bracket'.  I was just on the verge of getting the bunting out, when I felt the need to confirm that he wasn't implying that I looked like I should be in the next age bracket (55-64 is not somewhere I want to be yet).  Violence is never attractive in a woman of my age, but luckily, his highly intellectual brain flashed a warning light, and instructed his mouth to say, 'that this was a good thing', and that he was 'surprised I was that old'.  Sensible man...

Talking of sensible men (warning ladies, sarcasm alert) we need to discuss the husband.  I have jobs which need doing around the house, with the three top ones being as follows:

Adjust the thermostat so that the heating comes on automatically in the morning.
Now I always get up first in this house.  My very first job is to whang up (love this phrase) the thermostat so that the husband can get out of bed without running the risk of catching hypothermia between the bed and the bathroom.   Naturally, being a woman of a certain age, heat is an emotive subject, and I think that somewhere in the depths of his male brain, he thinks he's doing me a favour by keeping it cold in the house. 

Bleed the bathroom radiator so than more than the bottom rail warms up
Even if I whang the heating up as far as possible, this room remains almost polar.  Towels remain damp, and I never have warm drawers in the morning.  (Go on, admit it, you love warm drawers too).

Repair the shower so that the hand held part stays put on the vertical rail
This has started hurtling towards the taps like a missile, almost giving me heart failure as it reaches ground level with a noise akin to a finale cymbal crash.  Consequently, I have been holding it up there for the last week.  On Sunday night, while trying to wash my hair one-handed, I gave up, and de-camped to the boys' bathroom where a) they have a shower which works, and b) their radiator is warm.

Having shivered my damp way around various bathrooms on Sunday, I asked the husband (very politely, no nagging intended) whether he'd got round to looking at the heating and the shower.

'Not really', he said, semi comatose on the sofa with a bowl of Christmas pudding and custard settled on his lap. (I tell you, there'll be none left by Christmas).

'Not really?'  I asked.  'Which bits have you done then?'

'Well, none of it really'.

Aah.  I did explain to him that his response of 'Not really' implied that some element of work had been done, but if he hadn't actually done any of it, then the word 'really' was most definitely surplus to requirements.  A simple 'no' would have been more than adequate.

So here's the crux of the matter.  

Have I mentioned  before that he's a plumber?  

A plumber with qualifications...
A plumber with the right equipment (steady ladies, you know what I mean)...
A plumber who has experience (again ladies, see equipment)...

And yet...

I'M SITTING IN A COLD HOUSE WITH DAMP TOWELS, DIRTY HAIR AND COLD DRAWERS...

He's on borrowed time, that one...


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