Oil me up

I was hoping that by now I could be posting photos of the burgeoning Springtime, trees in early leaf, blossoms, tweeting birdies, flowers in the dell, all that stuff.  Instead, it is grey, cold and blowy outside. Also, dear readers, it is cold and grey (but less blowy) inside.

Why?

Because we have managed to run out of oil.  For those of you who live in towns and cities where things are all piped into your homes and you never have to worry about them (except paying the bills) allow me to explain.

Where we live, there are not a lot of mains services.  We have electricity  which does tend to fail at times, plunging the entire village into the Fourteenth Century.  We have running water, although that too has issues sometimes.  We have telephones, and therefore the Internet, thank goodness.  Other than that, we're on our own.

Thus our cooker runs on bottled gas, bought at huge expense, and our central heating and hot water run on oil, also bought at vast expense, stored in a tank in the garden.  When we had the oil tank installed about 12 years ago, we had a sensor fitted.  A little radio/wireless thingy that transmitted to a readout in the kitchen, telling us how much oil was in there. When it got to one bar (much like a mobile phone battery life indicator) you knew it was time to order more oil.  When the one bar started flashing and little icon of an oil pump lit up, you knew it was really time to order more oil, or to start panicking that the oil you had already ordered hadn't arrived yet.

There's always quite a wait. Sometimes three weeks, depending on the oil supplier, the time of year and whether the tanker driver can be arsed to come to our village.  Of course, to add to the complicated nature of this system, you have to shop around, as the price of oil varies considerably from supplier to supplier, so you seldom use the same supplier twice.

Oh, if you're bored with this story, imagine how it feels to have to LIVE it.

Anyhoo.  The oil tank sensor thingy failed last year sometime - the batteries ran out and you have to replace the whole thing, as apparently it's dangerous to dick about with batteries in a tank full of oil.  Cuh.  Lightweights. So, we bought a new one, exactly the same as the old one, and Mr WithaY installed it in the tank.

Fine.

The sensor in the tank worked ok; it told us we had oil.  However, the receiver unit in the kitchen didn't do what it was supposed to.  It flashed up a random and annoying set of bars and icons, and then defiantly went blank.  On referral to the Internet, which as we know is never wrong, it seemed that the unit wasn't set up quite correctly.  Several months of tweaking, resetting and giving up in exasperation followed, leaving us with a receiver unit in the kitchen that was left permanently turned off in disgust, and a sensor in the oil tank which Mr WithaY went to check every so often.

Just before Easter I said "How much oil have we got?"  Mr WithaY went out to check the sensor, and came in to report that we were down to the last bar.  Time to order more.  The tiresome research was done, and the cheapest oil price was obtained, and we placed our order.  They told us it would probably take "up to two weeks" which was fine. We knew from experience that we had enough oil to last a few weeks, as we were only on the last bar, not the flashing "get more oil NOW" icon.

However.  On the Tuesday after Easter, Mr WithaY announced that the boiler had locked up. He went out and checked the tank - physically dipping it, rather than looking at the sensor - and it was empty. The sensor still showed one bar.  Arse.

Since Tuesday last week, therefore, we have had no heating or hot water, as we are still waiting for the oil delivery.  They've taken the money for it - over £500 - but of course we are still at the mercy of their delivery schedules, and they told us how long it was likely to take when we placed the order.

Brrr.

On the plus side, we have an open fire and plenty of logs, so are able to keep the house warm. The dishwasher and washing machine still work perfectly well, it's just getting ourselves washed which is inconvenient.  Thankfully, we have lovely neighbours* who have kindly invited us over to use their shower when we need to.  

Last week also saw the visit of Middle Nephew, who was unphased by the lack of showering facilities, merely complaining that he couldn't do his hair properly.  He declined the offer of a shower at the neighbour's, saying that he'd wait till he got home.  Ah, teenage boys.

Mr WithaY took Middle Nephew out in the Landrover one afternoon.  They managed to get stuck in the mud, and had to walk miles in the snow to a v posh house at the edge of the woods to ask for help.  Fortunately, as so often seems to be the case, the locals were friendly and willing to help; some of them towed the Landrover out of the mud, and they all went to the pub afterwards.  Middle Nephew was unimpressed by this, and decided not to go out in the woods again.

I went to see my lovely Mum at the weekend, as I took Middle Nephew home too, and was able to chill out, have a bath and enjoy a very relaxing visit.  We went out for a drive on Sunday, up onto the Trundle, home of Goodwood Racecourse, where I almost managed to drop my car down a steep incline after misjudging the angle of approach to a car park entrance.  A swift change of plan and a backwards hill-start onto the main road (not recommended, kids!) meant we escaped unscathed  but it was a little alarming.

Oh, that reminds me. There was an impressive car accident in the village the other week.  The road outside our house is remarkably lively, not least because there is a popular pub, a very busy petrol station, and several minor roads all joining it within about quarter of a mile.

One afternoon, a car came trundling down one of these minor roads, and the driver - newly qualified, apparently - didn't realise she was approaching a junction with a major road. She failed to stop, and sailed out into the path of a huge oncoming lorry.  The lorry hit the car, flipped it across the road, through a set of railings and down the pathway into the side of the pub.  Incredibly, nobody was hurt, although apparently the lady in the pub who was sitting on the other side of the wall which the car smashed into didn't stop screaming for some time.

Other news:  Dog still lovely.  Weather still shite, but improving slightly, although that might be my metabolism getting used to the cold, what with the "no heating" thing.  Mr WithaY has been working up at Old Sarum, constructing Neolithic roundhouses as part of an experimental archaeology project.  More on this anon.   Catering stuff still plodding along slowly but surely.  Work still going well.

How are things with you?





*Hello Sarah!

Flouncing about

It's a bracing 11 degrees in my study this morning.  Mmmmm.  Fresh.

Yesterday afternoon, around 2pm, I was sitting in here, pleating ruffles for a funky dress I am making.  London Niece asked me to make her a costume to wear to some Manga convention, and helpfully emailed me pictures of the relevant character to work from:

I'm not making the umbrella, hat, boots or creepy ghost thingy. Just the frock.

Anyhoo.

Radio 4 Extra was on; I think I was listening to a Sherlock Holmes dramatisation.  Well, that's what always seems to be on Radio 4 Extra.  That and endless dull dramatisations of twentieth-century political novels I've never read.  Oh, and Elvenquest.  I like Elvenquest.

So, as I said, I was sitting in here, pleating miles and miles of black satin, and I thought "Hmm, it's getting a bit chilly now. I'll put the heating on a couple of hours early."

Normally our heating only comes on for an hour or so in the morning, just before getting-up time, and then again at teatime until bedtime*.  

So, I scampered downstairs, pressed the Advance switch on the boiler, made a cup of tea and scampered back up here.  Another half-hour, and more Sherlock Holmes, passed.  I realised I was still chilly - the tea masked that for a while - and felt the radiator.  Stone cold.

Hmm.

Did I press the wrong button on the boiler?  Not the first time I'd have done so, if I had.  Back down to the kitchen, and a proper look at the boiler control panel.

All the correct lights were on.  I ran the hot tap and ensured that there was hot water.  Yep.  Checked the oil tank sensor thingy.  Yep, still loads of oil there.  I pressed the heating button uselessly a few more times, then dug out the "Welcome to your new boiler" booklet that lives in among the cobwebby filth at the bottom of the boiler cupboard.

I read all the "Troubleshooting" advice, then tried everything they suggested.  The options were limited, to be fair.  I had to turn the hot water and heating temperature dials up to MAXIMUM POWER and listen for the burners igniting.

It was like the launch of the space shuttle.

The burners ignited with a satisfying THUMPFWOOOOOOSSSSSSSSHHHHHHH but there was nothing going on with the radiators.

Fuck.

I rang the boiler people and after a 20 minute wait on hold, interrupted by repeated attempts to make me go to the Internet, I got through to a helpful lady.

She listened to my babbling account of the problem - I suspect the only thing she was really interested in was my address and credit card details - but she made sympathetic noises and assured me that a repair man would be here on Saturday.  I asked when. Oh, any time between 0800 and 1600.

Fantastic.

After that, I went out to the impossibly awkwardly-placed log pile in the shed and managed to scavenge a basket of firewood.  We have far too many sheds.  You'd think at least one of them would be easy to use, wouldn't you?  The log shed (formerly the dog shed) has our supply of firewood in it.  I discovered yesterday that it has a leaky roof, and that Mr WithaY has rigged up a complex system of boards and tarpaulins inside the shed to keep the wood dry.

Unfortunately it makes it almost impossible to reach the log pile.  I perched atop flimsy boards and slippery tarpaulin, grabbing at logs randomly, feeling the whole heap move each time I removed something.  It was like playing Extreme Jenga.

It added an element of excitement to a routine chore, I suppose.

So.  I lit the fire in the sitting room at about 4pm, as it was getting dark and cold, and then sat there like a Victorian miser, doling additional firewood out according to a complex calculation involving the amount of heat required, estimated duration of log burn, critical mass of fire needed to retain structural integrity and number of logs left in the basket to last me the evening.

I went to bed at 9pm, cheered by the thought that I have a hot water bottle in the back of a cupboard.  I was going to fill it from the hot tap in the bathroom, wrap it in a small towel and a pillowcase, then snuggle in bed under a duvet and a heap of blankets, watching TV till I was sleepy.

I may even have hummed a happy tune as I filled my hot water bottle, after running the hot tap for ages to ensure maximum warmth.  I screwed the lid on and turned it upside down over the sink to shake out the water in the neck of the bottle.  Water poured from a myriad of tiny holes all over the bloody thing.

It's old.  It's rubber.  It's perished.

Fuck.

I went to bed in a bit of a sulk and contented myself with posting grumpy and petulant messages on Facebook, watching TV and finding extra blankets.

Mr WithaY is away on his bushcraft course this week.  Every time he goes away in the winter the boiler plays up.  Every bloody time.

Anyway, the boiler man rang me at 0730 to tell me he was on his way, and he is currently up to his ears in the boiler cupboard, fixing it.

In fact, update, he has finished, and the heating is back on.

So ignore the above.

Sorry about that.










*You should see our clocks.  No numbers involved.

Still cold

Well, the house is dark, dank and gloomy. My every step echoes through a desolate void. The world is a hard and lonely place*.

Arse.

Still, Mr WithaY and the American mates are back tomorrow. Hurrah.

The upstairs hot water isn't working, as I discovered when I was taking a shower this morning. Not something you want to find out after you start washing your hair. Past the point of no return, once shampoo is involved.

I spent a jolly half hour on the phone before I left for work, begging the boiler engineery fixey people to come out and fix it. They said "We'll be there on Monday".

I believe my anguished cry could be heard in Gloucester.

I explained** that we have no heating and no hot water, and that I was due a houseful of guests on Friday.

God, the Americans already think we live in the Dark Ages, still coping with rationing, oil lamps and the 3 day week. No central heating and having to wash in the kitchen sink would really put the tin hat on that.

Anyhoo.

The general consensus at work is that Mr WithaY is texting the boiler from France to encourage it to save on oil.

I was supposed to be driving to Bournemouth airport tomorrow afternoon to pick them all up but have arranged a taxi instead as I need to be here for the boiler man. Gah.

Other news: Was on a training course at work on Monday and Tuesday (hence not being in France with everyone else) which was interesting. In a sad "Not as good as the South of France" kind of way.

Had a cracking guitar lesson on Monday with my gorgeous teacher. I have been left with strict instructions to listen to Metallica's "Nothing Else Matters" so I can learn it. I don't think I've ever heard it. One of my lovely on-line mates told me to learn it months ago, so I will have to get my finger out and get listening.

So. Off to YouTube later.

Yep. Think that's about it for me today.




*Still bored being here on my own.

**I think he picked up how stressed I was at the point where I said "Just leave it, never mind....please. I will find a plumber who can come out today." I think my normally beautifully-modulated voice may have wobbled a little too.

Cold

Fucking heating's broken.

Mr WithaY goes away, the boiler decides to break. It is bloody freezing here.

I am tired, lonely, cold and grumpy.

Off to bed to try and get warm. Will hopefully have something worth reporting tomorrow.

Gah.