Most, if not all housewives will agree that time away from the onslaught
of running a busy home is important.
Giggy, our dog, and I are practically exhausted with all the not going
to work that has been going on around here. Not going to work is more
exhausting than one might think because it gives you plenty of time to get into
the detail on things you never gave a crap about before.
Hubby and I decided that we would embrace these times of
austerity by availing ourselves to the great institution that is The National Trust. However, it was soon to become apparent that the usual randomness and uncertainty around booking arrangements had once again prevailed.
This is simply because most of the decisions around travel arrangements are made in the evening during the midst of martinis, cheese straws, vodka lime and sodas, mikados, pickled onion monster munch and wine gums.
The following morning, it’s a question of recollecting what was agreed and more importantly what has been booked. We once booked a flight to LA and only
realised the next day when we found the confirmation email. We vaguely remember screaming with laughter
and dancing around the room, thinking we were so clever.
Although recollections are sometimes a bit hazy, the precision with which
some of these tasks are executed is remarkable. In the case of the LA trip, we had each booked our tickets separately,
paid for them separately but yet we ended up on the same flight there and back
and in seats next to each other. Quite a feat.
Anyway, gone are the heydays of first class travel to
LA. With Giggy’s lack of freedom to
travel internationally and a ridiculous, fleeting desire to do something
“rustic”, we perused the cottages available.
Booking confirmations arrived in the early hours of the morning.
Weeks later, we were struggling to recall which week,
which county, which cottage had been booked.
Having told all our friends we were going to Sussex, it became apparent when I rifled through old emails that we were, in fact, bound for Cornwall.
This came as somewhat of a shock to me as it is a relatively long
distance to drive (about 5 hours) but in addition to that, it happens to be only minutes away
from where my parents lived for 20 years. So, not the
unexplored, getaway cottage we had envisioned but more like what now looked like a small stone dolls' house in an area I know like the back of my hand. Oops.
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| A Child's Dolls House |
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| Our National Trust Cottage |
As the date has neared, a slight feeling of impending doom
has come over us. Fundamental questions
are being asked. In particular on the subject of “connectivity”. Hubby keeps asking “what’s the situation with the WiFi?”.
“There’s no phone – you think they’ll have WiFi?”, I tell him. "DVD player?" "No". He looks forlorn.
When you've got a bad case of FOMO (Fear of Missing Out) like
hubby, being without wifi (or 3G at the very least) for more than about 7 minutes
consecutively is unthinkable. A bit like being asked to hold your breath.
Internet has become as important as air – as water and heat. Necessary and taken for granted.
In case we were in any doubt as to HOW fundamental, a nasty
state of affairs was about to descend over our townhouse on a pretty garden
square in central London.
It started with a rather rude smell of gas and several
polite complaints from fabulous guests from around the world occupying the
basement guest bedroom. Usually these
unusual aromas are correlated highly to Giggy’s food intake but this was
different. It reminded me of camping in
France with my parents when I was younger.
Methane mixed with an innate fear of an imminent explosion.
No sooner had I reached for the phone and reported the gas
leak and I was asked to gather Giggy in my arms and evacuate the house. I would have done this dramatically and in
full view of all the neighbors but a cold front had moved in from Sweden and
it was fucking arctic. Although I told
them I was evacuating we just fled upstairs.
At this point it was a bit like a scene from Towering Inferno except without the fire
(and the tower), as Giggy and I sat it out on the top floor just hoping that
no-one would discard a cigarette as they walked past the house. There was no reason to believe they would but
having seen all four installments of Final Destination, I’m aware of how these
situations can escalate.
Relatively soon, the gas company turned up like the cavalry. I wasn't expecting the Village people – heaving chests, on all fours, panting
like dogs as they welded a bit of piping - but I mean come on – these guys were
not up to the mark at all. They trooped
in and out like old, surly teenagers, tutting about my piping
arrangements. “I wouldn't have done that
like that”, they said. “You always say
that”, barked Giggy.
Only 30 minutes later, the heating was turned off and Giggy
and I immediately felt a shiver of impending doom. A world without underfloor heating, hot baths and showers – it seemed incomprehensible.
Incomprehensible as it might have been, little did we know
that a bath at all, even a cold one, was about to become a luxury not afforded
to us. The pesky, grumpy teenagers and their meddling with the gas pipe had dislodged or damaged a water pipe and now
water was pouring into the basement of our Georgian home, dating back to the
1850s.
We watched in horror as the water made its way across the basement floor
in horror, Giggy barking at it, recognising it as an unwelcome guest. And then drinking a little bit of it.
“You need to contact the water board bout that mate”, said
one of the less attractive gas workers.
“We can’t touch them pipes”.
“Well you obviously did”, I retorted wittily.
I immediately went into survival mode. Lunging for the telephone, I speed-dialed the number for Claridges. They would
help. They would know what to do and all
of this would go away. They had people
that could plump a cushion without touching it – simply by pointing in its direction. They would be able to help.
But realising that the rooms cost more per night than I earn
in a month (well ever, at this rate), we were forced to spend the evening on
the sofa, Giggy draped over me as a rather makeshift but very effective heated
dog-shaped blanket. Hood up, a solitary
candle burning for warmth and an old fan heater that still worked but was so
dusty that it set off the fire alarms.
It made me realise that it's really the basic things in life that make you happy. Although the stone dolls house doesn't have WiFi, 3G, ISDN, SKY, Apple TV or a DVD player, it does have the utilities that matter. And most importantly, Hubby and Giggy are
also available on demand at no extra cost.
