I’ve had to put the heating on.
I’m not happy about it. I am notoriously tight when it comes to the heating. I’m a big believer in layering. If you’re cold, stick a jumper on. But Carole’s taken to meandering round the house in thick jogging trousers and a jumper. And then tops it off with a shawl. A bloody shawl.
Which, incidentally, she leaves lying around every now and again so if you’re not paying attention you could be under the belief that she’s disappeared while fighting Darth Vader.
So the heating’s on.
But it’s on to my standards, not Carole’s.
Which is to say it’ll go on for a bit and then stop. And maybe go on a bit later. Carole is a big, big believer in whacking the heating on solid for three or four hours at a time burning through units of gas like a stereotypical pyromaniac through the stereotypical orphanage he grew up in.
And then, when it gets to about March or April and British Gas have done their sixth monthly review of what we’re paying, I’ll receive a text message from Carole saying, “The gas has gone up to….” and then listing an extortionate figure. And every year I have to say that it’s because she made the house almost as hot as the blast when they launch space shuttles. And that just buying a jumper would be cheaper.
But she is right.
It is getting a bit nippy.
There’s a definite autumnal nip in the air. Two days ago I was sweating like a fat lad in a cake shop because it was stupidly warm and today I’m considering starting to wear socks around the house. Which is not a road I travel lightly, my friends.
I’ve even been super nice and set the heating to come on in the morning, so that it takes the chill off the house, for when Carole gets up and I remain cocooned in bed for a little while longer.
I mean, it’s only coming on for about half an hour. And even that makes me shudder as I think of the figures on my spreadsheet…
But still, it’s the thought that counts, right?