Warning – spoiler alert:
First para final sentence contains a small reference to the second to last episode of Game Of Thrones series 2. If you’ve not seen it, and plan to, I suggest you start with paragraph 2 (which won’t matter; I am prone to repetition).
I’m not good when things go awry in the property. If an Englishperson’s home is their castle, any defect within it is for me a metaphorical breaching of the walls, that scene in Game Of Thrones when the Lanisters come up behind Stanis Barathian’s troops – yeah, that. Complete with disembowelling.
This is mainly because anything that goes wrong in the house foxes me, and I don’t like being foxed. House technicalities and I have an uneasy relationship. I don’t understand them; they, probably, despise me. I am also, probably, paranoid on this score. So we live in a fragile truce, me and the property, where the only side that breaches it is the house itself.
So when there was a leak last Saturday night (interestingly an incident that prevented the viewing of Game of Thrones series 2 penultimate episode – you see what I did there?) I sprang into battle mode, and telephoned my knights in shining armour, British Gas Homecare. I love Homecare. Taken out when L2 was a newborn and the house, for us, was a mere five weeks older than him (yeah, that was a tough couple of months), it has saved me from myself on a number of occasions. Such as when I blocked the drain by tipping, well, all cooking debris down the sink. That sort of thing. The engineers don’t judge. They may smile ruefully, but that seems a fair exchange for their mile-long bendy brushes and power water jets.
As a consequence, I treat these engineers like the knights to end the siege, storming in on their milk-white chargers, plumes streaming, to patch up the piece of plastic piping ruptured simply because it wanted to. The poor chap on Sunday was offered tea, coffee, soft drinks (still and fizzy) and even a Mini Magnum. He wisely refused all, and instead explained to me (as they all do) why my inherited microbore pipes are particularly rubbish, as well as fixing the leak.
So now this moment of house betrayal is a distant memory (a week ago) and we are back to ‘rubbing along’ in the way we usually do. I’m conscious however that the house has reached ‘that age’ where original fixings are starting to strain at the seams, so I do expect many more moments of salvation over the coming months, perhaps unfortunately.