I put up a couple of new smoke alarms this week. We took our existing one down at the start of lockdown when we painted the hallway and never put it back because it was so bloody old that there is no way it can have been an actual functioning smoke alarm.
So, for however long it’s been, we’ve had no smoke alarm. Which is almost the same thing.
Honestly, it had been up for all the time Carole has been in the house, which means it’s way over the ten years that you’re recommended to have one in place for now without replacing it. Not to mention it was insanely yellow – presumably from nicotine, ironically, because the woman who had the house before Carole was a heavy smoker.
So that means it was hella old.
We ordered new ones online and as it was a twin pack of shiny white alarms which inspired confidence just from looking at them, we’ve now got two in place as we’d been really naughty and not had one upstairs – if there was ever a fire in a bedroom we’d never know and would just die a horrible death.
But now there’s one there.
I’ve attached it, beautifully, to the loft hatch that we don’t use because it’s been boarded over and for some reason the previous house owners thought it was easier to get into the loft through the top of a cupboard.
So, it’s on the loft hatch.
The screws are quite long. I think they just head into a gap between the boards of the loft and the hatch. But there’s equally a chance that I have screwed it through the hatch and into a cardboard box that we should have got rid of by now, or a bin bag full of clothes that should have been sent to a charity shop several years ago.
That was my main thought as I was drilling upwards into the hatch. Well that and how it would be just my luck if there were wires running over the hatch for some reason best known to someone other than me.
But I didn’t die from wires. And no-one’s been in the loft yet…
… Can’t wait until December when we try to get the tree down and it’s screwed to the floor.