Open Writing

Although the gas maintenance men are still encamped in our front garden, the first part of the week was strangely silent. The holes were still there, but where were the gas men? Had they taken their drilling too far? Perhaps they had joined all the gaps and were already tunnelling a short cut to the cellar?

On the other hand, were they like us, in the fearful grip of the ‘Health Maintenance’ series currently featured by one of the Sunday newspapers?
Every Monday morning since the features started, our readers have been nervously fighting cancer and heart disease symptoms. In fact we haven’t felt well since. Thank goodness we have come to the final episode ‘Old Age’ – we feel just about eligible.

But two days later our happy band returned, having temporarily deserted their drills for a gas leak in the village, which according to one was ideally situated between two friendly housewives who continually supplied them with their national drink, strong, hot tea.

I was just pulling faces at the dog while I waited for the sausage to brown, when the most painful sentence to date was passed upon me. ‘We are turning you off, love’ My blood ran cold and so did the sausage.

‘Will it be on for tea?’ asked my neighbour, who, miraculously still visits us. ‘Sure,’ he said. Twenty-four hours later I was still divorced from the gas supply but madly attached to my old-fashioned kitchen range. Unfortunately my long-suffering neighbour, who had nothing to do whatsoever with the cause of the trouble – our new shelf – was the worst hit. They depend on the Gas Board for heat and cooking.

Thank goodness I did not succumb to a half-hearted lust for gas fires. Earlier in the year I was considering having my Yorkist range with the gargantuan side oven and triple hobs ‘done in.’ Since we were struck ‘gasless’ it has kept us warm and cooked our meals. What more could two neighbours wish for? But the magic words came at last. ‘All done, love,’ plus a salutary caution from the fitter.

‘This is your new meter, and just in case your husband decides to put up another shelf – this handle turns of the gas!’

My husband rang at lunch-time to inform me we have two slates missing. Now although he can move a bus stop, divert the traffic, cut off his innocent neighbour’s life supply with one single wave of his hammer, we both agreed we would call a qualified roofer.

*

Well, it’s ‘all I want for Christmas’ time at our house. Mouth-drying lists are springing up everywhere. Just in case I miss any of the downstairs display, there are several duplicates decorating the bedrooms. ‘Is there anything we could sell?’ I ask myself, trying not to dwell too long on my husband’s tarnished bowling trophies. No wonder Jackie Onassis has finally sold her share in the family shipping line to step-daughter Christina. She let it go for half the price she wanted originally, but five million pounds should mean a lot of cream on anyone’s Christmas pud.

Our hardworking, big-spending engineering son has solved his Christmas shopping problems early – he called for a postponement.

Anyway, list composing is an enjoyable, harmless pastime for all ages and at the moment ours are at their most generous. We don’t start the alterations and name-dropping until nearer Christmas.

I let our children’s imagination run riot for a week or two, then I start dwelling on the unpleasant side-effects of the most expensive items. ‘Bikes give you bulgy biceps, love’ – when their cycle-owning friends are out of earshot, of course. With a little applied psychology their insular urges can be turned outwards. They are often just as happy planning extravagant luxuries for others, the trouble doesn’t start until they have to part with them.

But usually as time draws on, some of these fictions are naturally discarded and the cornflake packets start disappearing. Last year their home-made presents all had a plastic, gluey base. This year’s effort looks and smells the same, but there is a small difference, it seems we are expected to eat them.

When we have paid the prices and dried our tears, the next problem is where do we store these annual surprises? One year we hid nearly all the toys in our piano. It says a lot for our resident musician’s talents, no one noticed the difference in sound that £25 worth of toys made!