The gasmen cometh!
They are digging up the pavements outside our house, ready to lay a new gas main. Obviously we are not
alone in our Gas Main Pain; for weeks on end the whole road has been a maze of safety barriers, works vehicles and notices telling pedestrians where to go. In the nicest possible way, of course.
About a week ago we had a postcard through the letterbox telling us that the gasmen were going to turn off our gas on Thursday and Friday this week and so required access to our property. There were no ifs or buts or maybes
– this was going to happen, like it or not. Fortunately Mr B and I do not rely on gas for cooking and it’s warmer now so we shouldn't need the heating on. If it gets cold we shall just have to cuddle up or do some running on the
Nothing at all happened on Thursday, doubtless due to the downpour of rain. This morning it became obvious that serious work was underway. Safety barriers
had been erected along the grass verge outside our house and an extremely large vehicle with TARA written on the side (what a pretty name for such an ugly vehicle!) completely blocked the view from our kitchen window. I decided I had better get showered and
dressed quickly for when the gasmen cometh to switch off our supply. I needn’t have bothered for, lo and behold, yet another postcard arrived, telling us that our gas supply will now be turned off on Wednesday and Friday next week. What happens
on Thursday is not clear. If we have any queries we are directed to ring someone called Dan. Dan is Our Man, it seems. Isn’t it strange the way nobody appears to have a surname these days?
I decided to have a chat with Dan the Man and sauntered across the road to where the crew (you can see I know the lingo) were enjoying a cup of tea generously supplied by our neighbours. One of the crew, who resembled
a rather grubby Greek god in a yellow hi-vis jacket, explained the timetable for next week. He promised that we will be inconvenienced as little as is humanly possible. He was a good PR man as well as presumably being good at digging holes in the ground.
They do say that it is good to have a portfolio of skills in these uncertain times. I don’t know if he was Dan the Man as I forgot to ask but I decided to assume that he was. He exuded considerable confidence that they were now back on track and
as ready as they would ever be. I went back home to reassure Mr B that we would be inconvenienced as little as possible. Which was when he noticed that a truck on wheels was parked right across our driveway, so preventing us from driving out to our Friday
morning choir session. Off he stormed to find Dan the Man to get the offending article removed and pronto.
At choir we had visitors from a neighbouring U3A who
had come to hear us sing. One of our visitors is in charge of the entertainment at an event in July where we will be one of eleven choirs performing and I think she was possibly checking us out to make sure we could sing in tune. Our conductor,
the Redoubtable Muriel, had us singing Come to the Fair and We’ll Gather Lilacs, finishing off with a rousing rendition of Viva La Musica, performed in a round. Our visitor said we made her tingle. We took this as a compliment. I always say that
it is better to assume you are being paid a compliment unless it is absolutely crystal clear that it is not the case. This way lies happiness. Most of the time.
choir, the Bacon Bap Brigade met as usual in the community centre cafe. We were back at full strength as two of our number have returned from holiday. The conversation almost drifted back to the crematorium again (see previous blog) but we managed to
divert it onto happier topics. As I pointed out, we really had done the crematorium to death.
Tonight the fortnightly cribbage group is convening at our house
because our usual hostess is away. I am just hoping that everyone will find us, hidden as we are behind Dan the Man’s machinery. The table is set, the cards are shuffled and I’ve checked on the state of the Biscuit Tin.
Like Dan the Man, I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.