The life of Di
A monthly column by Di Wade, the author of ‘A Year In Verse’
In the bleak midwinter... it helps if the heating stays on...
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waking not late exactly but later than I’d meant this morning, I duly leapt out of bed like a scalded cat, (complete with accompanying expressive yelp), and first raced downstairs to switch the computer on: And while that was whirring and grinding itself into life, rushed back upstairs for a quick wash - two minutes into which, my befuddled brain registered that the water hadn’t exactly got tropical. More to the point, it hadn’t actually moved on a jot from its original Arctic state – which five minutes later remained the case. Thus more in hope than expectation, I turned the heat up, just in case I’d accidentally turned it down so far last night that the hot tap COULDN’T on this occasion surpass the temperature of a penguin’s behind. However, I bought this idea to roughly the same extent as I routinely bought sackloads of cabbages and Brussel sprouts, so wasn’t especially surprised when not a sausage happened. All the same, if I CAN do a thing myself, I blooming well will, so while polar bears congregated in the back yard, I womanfully worked away on my computer, in sixteen jumpers+, periodically adjusting the heat in case this time, it and the hot water might soon be miraculously restored. But zilch. By lunchtime, I was obliged to phone my parents for advice, whereupon my superstar dad undertook to be there in twenty minutes. Two minutes later, one of the smoke alarms started bleeping. It was mercifully in the innocent fashion indicating its battery needed changing. However, the shrill yip every few seconds, besides going right through plus frightening the life out of one, was unhelpfully distracting, and attested
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to another job regarding which I’d have to impose on my dad - so it was a mixed blessing when it shut up prior to his arrival: On the one hand, it’d clearly set up again soon, but till it did, we’d no way of knowing which alarm it was so couldn’t do anything - and meantime we had peace – to try and work out why the dratted heating wasn’t coming on. Well I say “we”, for my part, I hadn’t the foggiest what might be either the problem or solution, so just trailed my dad like a lost sheep, nervously biting my lip as he inspected displays and cupboards, and finally produced the welcome click followed by the glorious roar of sound which indicated that the boiler was back on: My admiration was considerable, my relief unbounded, and I vowed there and then never to take heating for granted ever again. Well one never should I think. Nor to a greater or lesser extent should one properly underestimate any benevolent warmth, whether it take the form of the kindness of friends, family, or others, meetings with friends and family, (which after the past year and a half should arguably be a source of thankfulness for evermore), the homely embrace of a local hostelry, (whether the Italian Orchard, Wetherspoons in St Annes, the Red Lion in Bispham, or Stanley Park Café), or just the uplifting glow of local autumn trees. There’s lots of rubbish in life, but there IS good, which should be appreciated all the more for the rubbish. So says your resounding Blackpudlian non-Socrates. Stay safe, and well, and warm this winter. www.lancmag.com
