I’m softening in my old age. I must be because – and typing this makes me feel sick – the other day, when I was home alone, I put the heating on.
I could have gone upstairs and added layers. I could have wrapped up warmer. I could have pushed a door or two closed to trap the heat.
Instead, I asked the home robot lady to put the heating on.
I’m clinging on to the top of a very slippery slope here. How can I threaten to turn the heating off, remotely, on Carole if I’m doing stuff like putting heat into the house for 30 minutes.
I mean, I suppose that element if it does change things a little. Makes it a little more acceptable. It’s only for thirty minutes. It’s a boost, to take the chill off. I’d had the windows open upstairs to allow the condensation from showering to dissipate. I closed the windows and just took the chill off.
That’s all it was. I’m happy with that. I’m going to justify it with an abritrary definition. I didn’t put the heating on, I took the chill off.
To me, in my mind where I justify this, putting the heating on is sitting around enjoying the warmth. Thinking things are warm. Saying, “ooo, it’s lovely and warm.”
Taking the chill off, though, doesn’t see you badking in the heat. You are just aware, at the edges of your perception, that it’s less cold than it was before. Not exclusively warm. Just less cold.
You don’t even notice 30 minutes. By the time it’s on, it’s done. You are less cold, but not necessarily warm. You’ve just taken the chill off, not put the heating on. Putting the heating on is an hour, two hours, many more hours of heat. Taking the chill off is thirty minutes so you can touch a radiator and notice a change.
I don’t feel so bad now.