I’m sitting in a freezing cold vestry discussing Church finances and the need to cut back on non-essential spending. I imagine it would be out of oorder to ask if we could switch the electric heater on…
I am one of those people who, once I start shivering, simply can’t stop. It probably doesn’t help that I live in a home which is kept at the temperature of a
tropical glasshouse on account of Mr B, who feels the cold like some exotic butterfly. Everybody who comes to our house comments on the heat which hits the visitor just as soon as he or she sets foot inside. The Lovely Kay who helps me keep our house in order,
arrives every Wednesday in her skimpiest tee-shirt whatever the weather, all the better to be prepared for working in an internal heatwave.
To be fair, most of
us keep warm by moving about so when you are Mr B, largely immobile (except for waving his arms excitedly in the air when Tottenham score against Everton) one can understand the need to turn the heating up. It’s all a question of degree, don’t
Our Boy, who came to stay over the Christmas season, suggested that at least once a day I should open both front door and patio doors to allow fresh
air to sweep through the house. I decided that this could be my New Year’s Resolution and started out on New Year’s Day with a strong dose of Reforming Zeal.
I felt it sensible to let Mr B know what I was doing, and on whose advice - this, I told myself, would be my “Get Out Of Jail” card, should it all go wrong. Mr B was surprisingly compliant, possibly because I made lengthy reference to germs
of the Australian flu variety (ones which presumably thrive in the heat of the Aussie outback and might therefore flourish in our Over Heated Home.) I also tried to involve him in the detail - should we operate Operation Blowing Away The Cobwebs for
ten minutes a day, or quarter of an hour, or Something Else Altogether? Mr B was watching a programme on TV about being swindled by fraudsters and was therefore too distracted to express a preference so I settled on quarter of an hour, on account of it not
being a round number, don’t you know?
Opening the patio doors, I could see tiny specks of white out on the grass at the far end of our back garden - so,
slipping on my Backdoor Shoes (a much used, much appreciated Christmas present from my sister and her fella) I made my way up the garden to find, to my delight, two snowdrops lifting their pearly white heads above the grass. These were a sweet and thoughtful
gift from our next door neighbours who’d heard via the Daily Blog, of my desire to grow a snowdrop garden and decided to start me off when they discovered snowdrop plants on a visit to the local garden centre. It will inevitably be a few years before
I can look out on a veritable carpet of snowdrops but, to use another horticultural reference, great oaks from tiny acorns grow.
While I am gazing reverently
at my two tiny acorns / snowdrops, a tremendous howl of rage can be heard from Him Indoors. The draught created by leaving both front and patio doors open has caused the internal door leading from hallway to living room to crash shut with a mighty bang, waking
Mr B from his slumbers and scaring him witless.
I dash back indoors to shut the front door and placate my poor Mr B. No, I don’t tell him about the
snowdrops, I think I shall save that news for a more appropriate moment. The house does feel very well aired, but I don’t think it wise to draw attention to that fact either.
That was some days ago and I must admit that I haven’t kept up my New Year’s Resolution. The house is still hot, hot, hot. Visitors - and I do love visitors - are duly advised that when they come ( and I hope they do) they
will receive, well, the very Warmest Of Welcomes.