It's a gas, man...

YAY! Today is B-Day.... No - not BIDET, but Boiler Day.

Following the conflagration which ended with the demise of my elderly hot water boiler, I am at last to be reconnected to mains gas again. After nearly three weeks without hot water (and a week of no water at all!) the insurance company have graciously granted me the luxury of a new boiler, and so I issue an invitation to my tame plumbers to sort me out.

The lovely Andrew arrives first thing in the morning and I hand over my key with the usual instructions re not letting the moggy escape, then beat a hasty retreat to work while he and his colleagues wreak further havoc on my already-ruined kitchen... I never thought I'd hear myself saying it, but I am SO looking forward to washing up in hot water! Who would think a confirmed lazy slob such as myself would ever aspire to such dizzy heights of domesticity, but believe me - when you've had to spend three weeks boiling saucepans of imported water for dishwashing, anything that comes out of a tap - hot - is nothing short of a miracle!

I arrive home after my allotted time in slavery to find the house deserted except for my moggy, and go to investigate the new boilerage... Super Mario Brothers have done a cracking job and a brand spanking new gizmo resides in the corner of my kitchen - or what's left of it..... In order to fit the new boiler, they have had to remove a wall cabinet, the contents of which are spread along the worktop, liberally coated in dust... The cat too looks distinctly grey as she pads along the gritty work surface leaving pawprints, and suddenly the novelty of being able to run a sink full of hot water to start the clean-up operation loses its lustre...

Once more, I close the door firmly on the grimy kitchen and reach for the phone to order takeaway...

...and there's MORE!!!

Only yesterday, I reported the heinous crime that befell my poor innocent wheelie bin, and I am still reeling from the trauma of my loss when in the midst of my morning ablutions, my mobile phone rings. Nekkid and dripping, (not an attractive sight...) I answer it to discover it is an early-morning Plod who hopes he hasn’t got me out of bed. When I reply that I was in the shower, he apologises, then asks if I have a pen handy. Oddly enough, I don’t, and I tell him I already have a reference number so THAT rains on HIS parade...

“Oh. So you’ve already reported it then?” Plod sounds disappointed. For a moment, confusion reigns. Am I in the middle of some bizarre dream? How did he get my phone number if he thinks I haven’t yet reported the theft? Is he from the Psychic Division? He earnestly assures me that everything possible is being done to reunite me with my disappearing dustbin, then asks me if it has any distinguishing features? Astounded that the police are wasting so much time and effort on a rubbish bin, I pause to wonder quite what he means.... I always consider handlebar moustaches and eyepatches to be rather distinguished, but my bin sports neither, and I’m sure that’s not what Plod has in mind. It DOES however have a splodge of yellow foam smeared on the lid, so yes Officer - I CAN pick it out of a lineup.... I decide prudently NOT to tell him it has a name (Osama) lest he think I’m completely off my rocker, but in my opinion, it’s a toss-up as to which of us is more bonkers - me for naming the bloody wheelie bin, or him for treating it like the Great Train Robbery! Seemingly satisfied with my answer, PC Plonker promises he’ll let me know if there are any further developments, and I gratefully return to the warmth of my shower, shaking my head with the absurdity of it all....

Later in the afternoon, my friendly bin-bobby calls again to give me an update on the investigation. They have discovered....nothing. Nada. Zilch. A big fat zero.... Apparently, he and his colleague have trawled my neighbourhood, inspecting wheelie bins and interviewing anyone loitering with bintent.... Alas, nobody can shed any light on the mystery and, adopting the doleful tones of one about to impart news of the death of a loved one, he sadly tells me he can do no more, and that I will probably never see my wheelie bin again..... It’s as much as I can do not to snort out loud, and I feel guilty for not showing more concern, but thank him for his trouble.

I ensure that I have disconnected from the call before yelling “Now go and catch some REAL criminals!!!” at the phone....

It's wheelie disappeared....

As I recover from my latest domestic crisis - The Great Boiler Debacle - I begin (albeit still boilerless) to relax, but no - the fickle finger of Fate figures it’s time to point my way again. What catastrophe has befallen me this time? My wheelie bin goes AWOL.....

My personal theory is that it has been abducted by aliens in order to analyse the wasteful habits of earthlings, but I have to reluctantly accept that it is more likely to have been pinched by local scum for reasons best known to themselves - perhaps to conduct wheelie bin Grand Prix? Indignant and binless, I phone my local council (Wheelie Bin Division) to request a replacement but am told I will have to wait, as they currently have none in stock. Quelle horreur - I will have to use BIN BAGS in the interim!!! Oh, the shame...

Two days later, I receive a phone call from the council who inform me that I should have been told that I would NOT be supplied with a new wheelie bin until I furnished them with a Crime Reference Number from the local constabulary. My high-pitched squeak of astonishment attracts dogs from all over the neighbourhood and I do a passable impersonation of John MacEnroe: “You cannot be serious???” Apparently they are, and I am left with no choice but to bother the boys in blue with my trashcan trivialities.

Against my better judgement, I ring my local nick using the number which is on speed-dial on my phone, having had cause to contact the rozzers on one or two occasions in the past. Bad neighbourhood... say no more. I begin my tale of woe, but am interrupted by the female officer on the other end of the phone who demands to know where I got this number as it’s ex-directory! I pick my jaw up off the floor, am given another number to dial and promise to delete the first one from my phone. I try again, and endure an eternity of finger-drumming tedium whilst a recorded voice tells me not to leave my belongings on display in my car. FINALLY, a cheery Scots lady answers and is somewhat taken aback when I tell her apologetically that I have rung (as per instructions from the council) to report my wheelie bin is missing. Despite the inconsequential nature of the ‘offence’, she is obliged to go through the motions so I can get the Crime No. We both get the giggles as she goes through the standard list of silly questions the police are obliged to ask: “When did you last see your bin?”... “Do you class yourself as white-British?”...”Is there CCTV in the area?” Being an old hand at this by now, I dare her to ask me how tall I am (they usually do!) and she laughs almost as much as me, but then sends me completely over the edge and into full-blown hysterical cackles as she asks me somewhat sheepishly if I require counselling after suffering such a loss....

Weeping with laughter, I pull myself together sufficiently to decline her kind offer, but dissolve into wheezing giggles again as I ask out of interest what would happen if I said yes..... Trying desperately not to laugh, the nice police lady assures me they would have to send someone round to talk me through my traumatic ordeal.... All daft questions completed, I apologise once again for having had to trouble the constabulary with such a ridiculous matter, thank her for giving me the best laugh I’ve had in months, and ring off, clutching the precious number required by the Jobsworth at the council.

It takes me a good five minutes to regain sufficient composure to ring the council with the information they demanded, and this call is far less entertaining! The woman at the council offices is in no mood for my rapier-like wit and all but snaps at me for not taking the matter seriously, but at last the order for my new wheelie bin can be processed, and I sit back to await the next domestic disaster.....

I vant to be alooooooone....

Being a single woman, it's a tad odd going places alone, but I'm getting used to it. Why should I miss out on the simple pleasures of life merely because I'm a Singleton, as my heroine Bridget Jones would say? This is the first time I've been to the cinema by myself, and as it's such an auspicious occasion, I decide to treat myself to dinner too, and it's with some trepidation that I enter Frankie & Benny's emporium near the movie complex.

"Table for how many...?" enquires the punky-looking waitress, grabbing a handful of enormous menus despite the fact that I am plainly on my tod. She sulkily replaces all but one of the football-pitch sized menus and seats me slap bang in the middle of the diner. I feel on display, but am determined to brazen it out. There may as well be a neon arrow above my head announcing "LONER!" as every time I look up, there's someone staring at me.... Of course, it could be something to do with the fact that I'm sitting in the middle of a busy restaurant on a Friday night, scribbling in my Moleskine.... The staff regard me with suspicion, and I wonder if they think I'm a food critic, as I get served faster than I took to read the menu - or is it just that solo diners aren't good for business?

My server is a young guy with enough facial ironmongery to rival Xerxes, the baddie in '300', the film I've just seen (yes, for the fourth time...) but he's as camp as a row of pink tents, which is at odds with the face furniture. I suspect his lithp is to do with his pierthed tongue, and I don't even want to know what else has been adorned with metalwork... I attack my meal with gusto but realise too late that the red wine is a mistake as I feel my face aglow. When will I remember that alcohol makes me flush these days? It's an effort not to shovel my food down as fast as I can, as I'm aware - paranoia perhaps? - that I'm not their ideal diner. I'm occupying a table for 4, but I'm determined not to be rushed. Out of spite, when my plate is whisked from under my nose the moment I lay down my cutlery, I order dessert - unheard of for me - and I can see the smile stiffen on the waitress's face... (Shift change means Xerxes has signed off...) She plonks in front of me a piece of cheesecake the depth of a divan mattress, and I'm surprised by how light and delicious it is. I plough doggedly through it, then just to be extra awkward, order a cappuchino which appears almost as soon as I've said the final syllable.

It dawns on me that I've perhaps outstayed my welcome when the 50's background music rolls around to the same Frank Sinatra track that marked my entrance, and I look up expectantly for the waitress to bring the bill.... The staff have decided to have the last laugh however and are nowhere in sight. I am more than ready to go home after my somewhat arduous dining experiment, although I'm glad that I've done it. Maybe next time won't be so daunting?

Elb Ablaze....

So there I am on a Friday evening, all set for a nice relaxing bath with lovely niffy bubbles, good book and a glass of wine.... Just like in the movies, I slip out of my workday grubbies, tossing them casually into the corner of the bathroom, step into the fragrant suds, and am about to immerse my ample arse in the botty-scalding bubbles, when............. BANG!!!

Both the cat (she''s a voyeur when it comes to baths...) and I freeze in mid-action, and decide somewhat quickly that the loud report emanating from the kitchen warrants immediate investigation, so I go into rewind mode and pursue the moggy downstairs just short of warp-speed, which is no mean achievement for one so lardily-impaired. I find myself skidding to a halt in the kitchen which has turned into a swimming pool, courtesy of the jet of H2O cascading out of my hot water boiler, which is now doing its utmost to heat said swimming pool by dint of the flames licking out of the casing...

For one moment, I panic and gasp for air - not altogether wise, as the room is filling rapidly with acrid white smoke, but then fear lends waterwings to my feet and I backtrack onto the slightly drier territory of the hall carpet, trying to make sense of the fact that there is fire and there is water - lots of it - but that the latter is failing to extinguish the former. Plumber. Must call a plumber. Wielding phones like a Western gunfighter, I scrabble my way through my saved numbers, trying plumber after elusive plumber, leaving a panic-stricken squeaky voicemail on the first answering machine, before realising that it's WAY too late for SuperMario Brothers, and it's now time to call out Pugh, Pugh, Barney, MacGrew, Cuthbert, Dibble and Grubb.... 999 is a lot quicker to dial, and I am assured that the Fire Brigade are on their way.

I swing into 'rescue' mode, grab the cat and basket and insert one into the other (fortunately the right way round) before racing to open the back door and depositing slightly alarmed cat outside in the cold night air. Then it's the turn of my beloved Apple laptop, conveniently still packed in its travelling bag, which goes to keep the cat company while I - foolishly - rush upstairs to scramble into trousers and fleece, as I would obviously prefer to be burned to a crisp fully-clothed, rather than stand outside in my dressing gown, freezing my considerable assets off to the amusement of sundry passers-by. Wheezing partly through fear, and partly due to the smoke, I race back downstairs and do a great impression of Kermit as I vaccillate between getting out and turning off the gas, but then it dawns on me that I don't know HOW, so prudently evacuate the fume-filled house to await the arrival of my saviours, expecting the gas main to ignite at any moment and blow me and my neighbours to Kingdom come....

It seems an eternity before the blue flashing lights appear, and I leap up and down like an idiot to ensure they stop at the right house. Like there are others with smoke billowing out the door and a fat woman wearing mis-matched clothes doing windmill impressions... Two appliances pull up outside my house and disgorge a torrent of chunky chaps who proceed to push me firmly aside, don breathing apparatus and march into my home. There seem to be hundreds of them, and some set up their little incident board on the pavement while the rest mill around trying to look useful, as my smoke-filled kitchen can only hold so many burly blokes in BA. I am still convinced that the whole shebang will go kaboom, but finally the gas tap is located and the impending catastrophe is averted. The fire is subdued, then extinguished altogether, and the heroic firechaps pound throughout my house in hobnailed boots, opening every door and window they can find before starting up a huge fan at the front door and blowing my garden into my lounge...

As his minions pack away their equipment, the FireBoss reassures me that the Gas Board will be with me shortly to make the boiler safe, but that I have no gas (whoopee!) or water (Ah.) He shows me a piece of copper pipe that had formerly been part of the boiler before said appliance went into meltdown, and parted company with rest of it, causing mains pressure water to power-wash my kitchen while the failsafe mechanism didn't do what it said on the tin. While I wibble over what could have happened, the lovely firecrew mop up the majority of the swimming pool, then fit two new smoke detectors for me. Some 90 minutes after the Big Bang, the valiant lads bid me goodnight and head off back to the station to await their next shout.

I am a tad relieved when the man from the Gas Board assures me a short while later that everything is safe. He solemnly declares the boiler to be well and truly dead, (no shit, Sherlock?!) and I somewhat hysterically launch into the Dead Parrot sketch..... It is an EX-boiler... it has ceased to be! Bewildered, he makes his escape, leaving me to puzzle over whether to hoover my carpets or rake them. I decide to do neither and leave the piles of dead leaves until morning. In the meantime, I release the cat from her imprisonment, and as the bathwater is still lukewarm, I take advantage of what is to be my last dip for some time to come.... With the window open to vent the lingering noxious fumes, I shiver in the tepid water and decide NOT to linger with a glass of wine, nor the book as per my original plan. It's not what I had in mind for a relaxing bathnight, but hey - beggars can't be choosers!