It’s snowing! In October for goodness’ sake. October 16th. Needless to say, it’s a mite cold. It’s only a few weeks since we were sitting on the beach soaking up the sunshine. Sorry, I’m getting carried away from the point of the post. I expect that anyone reading this title and then reading my whining about the snow would deduce that I’m about to load up a couple of suitcases and head for Florida. But no. Read on.
I’m sitting in my local coffee shop writing this. Now that’s something I like to do anyway. It’s warm, there’s a happy buzz about the place, the background murmuring is, for me, quite conducive to writing. But today it’s not about the ambiance. Our heating system at home has failed. Luckily, Mrs. Tunsley is out all day at some gardening seminar thingy. So I have time to get things fixed before she gets back this evening.
I detest being at a loss when faced by a machine. It’s just metal and plastic and stuff after all. So I confront the errant oil boiler, scowl at it to intimidate it, and take off the front panel. Oh dear, there’s wires all over the place. And it’s buzzing. I find a power switch and flip it – buzzing stops. Flip it again – buzzing starts. But no ignition. I press a couple of red buttons. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in life, that’s to press any red button available if things are not working well. This has sometimes had negative consequences, like when I inadvertently cut the winch cable on a helicopter; luckily there was no-one being winched at the time. Often though it seems to fix things. But not today.
So, to the coffee shop. But first, I will arrange professional help. There’s a number on a card hanging from the boiler from its last service. I make the call. Here is a transcript of the conversation:
Young Lady At The Oil Boiler Servicing Establishment: (perky and unquestionably friendly) “Hello, Oil Boiler Servicing Establishment, how can I help you?”
Me: (grumpy) “Hi, yes, my heating’s packed up.”
YLATOBSE: (confused) “Excuse me?”
M: (tiny bit grumpier) “I said my heating’s packed up.”
YLATOBSE: (tiny bit confrontational) “I don’t understand sir, what’s packed up?”
M: (frustrated) “My heating, the oil boiler furnace thingy. It won’t work. I’m cold. I need someone to make it go.”
YLATOBSE: (now cold, standoffish, very clearly enunciating) “So your furnace is not working and you would like someone to come and repair it.”
M: (angry, how can she not understand) “Yes, yes, my furnace is not working and I’d like someone to come and repair it, yes.”
YLATOBSE: (just get rid of this bozo) “Yes sir, I understand now. Let me put you through to our service manager.”
The rest of the conversation is not important. The point is that even after 20 years in this country, I still have the power to use Britishisms to completely confuse people. And when I think about it, the phrase “My heating’s packed up” is indeed thoroughly confusing to strangers. If the YLATOBSE ever reads this post, I apologize.
