The cost of living hits me – all in one go

THE older you get, the more you accept that certain vague hunches you may have had about life can turn out to be realities.

Take London bus syndrome as an example. It’s a bit of a joke that you wait for ages and no omnibus turns up, then several arrive at the same time.

A mathematician would probably tell you it’s as unlikely as a gambler believing he’s ‘on a roll’, or someone declaring that bad things really do happen in threes.

Yet these apparent flukes do occur. The trouble is that being ‘on a roll’ can be reversed, so that a whole series of unwelcome developments can suddenly happen on the roulette wheel of life.

One of my pals heard all this from me this week when he drove down the lane and stopped for a chat. I bet the poor blighter wished he’d just waved and kept merrily on his way.

Because, when my ever-polite pal Paul stopped to pass the time of day, he was obviously not expecting a diatribe about London buses, serial cockups and mishaps, and rotten bad luck in general.

But that is what he got from an embittered Hesp – who was, that morning, suddenly facing a mountain of bills. Or ‘invoices of the unexpected’, would be a better way of describing the multiple attacks on my bank account.

Paul is a sensible bloke and when I told him about the multiple missiles pointing at my finances, he shrugged: “Cost of life, mate. That’s all it is. Just living expenses. They can come thick and fast sometimes.” Thick and fast? You are telling me! To fix our plethora of problems, I’ll clock up a good five-figure sum.

We recently spent £2,000 replacing our oil tank to ensure no spillage or environmental disaster could result from our carrying on with the old one.

That was me being sensible, and the guy did a good job. Then – as if it was sticking up a single aggressive finger in my direction – the oil-fired boiler decided to quit. Probably from being overworked during the recent prolonged cold period. Now we need a new one.

I mentioned having a soak-away sewer system a couple of weeks ago in this column knowing many rural readers will have the same sort of thing.

The excellent Devon-based team I always use came to fix it, and then went away without doing a thing because a hairline crack meant they dare not touch it. The extremely experienced and nice boss came out this week and shook his head. It could cost an awful lot of money, and digging, to repair.

Then there’s my gap-toothed yokel look, which I’ve also mentioned in this column. The one my dentist tried to fix with a denture, which I wore for a week and then threw into a bin believing it to be some sort of medieval torture device. I just received an estimated bill for putting the old Hesp smile back where it should be. It’s going to cost the best part of £5,000. I’ve heard of laughing all the way to the bank – but never of going to the bank so that you can buy the wretched smile.

We also have a leaking shower which drips into the room below, a fridge-freezer that grows ice on the outside so urgently needs replacing, and even an expensive but broken kitchen tap.

Basically, Hesp Towers is a disaster zone. It’s going to cost perhaps £15,000 to put things right.

I know. I really do know… Much worse can happen in life. But the sheer weight of bad luck – this London bus syndrome of everything arriving at the same time – has put me into a bad mood.

Fifteen grand! But not for anything I’d actually like to spend my money on. Like the nearly-new model of car I’ve been eyeing up. Or that muchhoped-for holiday.

Or that dream of a nice little office in the garden in which I could write faultless prose and therefore earn dosh with which to pay the damned bills.

No. We are talking fifteen-thousand-lousy-quid just to get back to where I was a few months ago.

“It’s so unfair!” I hear the teenage kid in me crying. And this is what I tell that teenage kid…

“If the 18-year-old you hadn’t got so drunk and come out of that pub only to collapse onto your ugly mug, you would not be facing that fivegrand tooth job now! You stupid boy!”

Because that’s what originally dislodged those front teeth.

Six foot two inches of Hesp falling, inebriated as the proverbial rat, onto unforgiving tarmac. Large human noses and front teeth will never win that fight.

If only we knew at 18 what we know now. However, I’ve a feeling that even if I doubled my present age to an impossible 128, I’d still be learning the lessons of life.

Like the wisdom that says you ought to ‘put something away for a rainy day’.

It seems my preference for spending money on nice things and having fun doesn’t amount to a hill of beans.

It’s as daft as thinking another bus will come along when three have just disappeared around the corner.

If only we knew at 18 what we know now .... though even at twice my age, I’ll be learning