The heating’s bust so I’m relying on those in my support bubble bath

BRITAIN’S REGIONAL COLUMNIST OF THE YEAR GETS TO GRIPS WITH LIFE IN THE BIG CITY

ACTUALLY, when you get used to it, it’s not that cold, I assured the huddled family members through chattering teeth, my breath issuing distress smoke signals.

“Mike,” hissed She-Who-Must-BeObeyed, “you’re watching the television wearing a balaclava, mittens and duffle coat. Don’t tell me it’s not cold.”

The central heating has packed in. When you’re lacking in any semblance of DIY skills, it’s best to make light of even the gravest domestic catastrophe. Like the kitchen incident last year.

“Julie,” I shouted cheerily, “you know that bulge in the ceiling you were worried about? Well, it’s gone... along with the ceiling.”

The demise of the heating has been so terribly sudden. No horrible noises or a gradual decline in service; gentle signs that would’ve given us time to prepare, emotionally and physically, for this latest household disaster.

One night there was piping hot water, long baths so warm they turned your fingers wrinkly, a living room where heat haze danced in front of the plasma TV.

By the next morning, the whole central heating system had died. The cold days had come without warning. I’ll bet the Ice Age started like that. We paid an awfully nice man to come and look at it. He looked at it and tutted. He said it was a bigger job than he thought it would be.

“What did you think it would be?” I asked.

“A smaller job,” he said matter-offactly.

I think he knows what he’s doing. He’s promised to come back on Tuesday.

“But today’s Saturday,” I stammered, hopping on the spot to keep warm.

“What on earth are we supposed to do until Tuesday?”

“Try all huddling together on the sofa and eat plenty of Kendal mint cake,” he told us.

He pushed a scrawled, mis-spelt note through our letterbox yesterday. It said, “you need a pimp”, I think.

I’m cold, but not that cold – yet. If it’s not fixed by Thursday, then I’ll consider selling my body.

“I’m pretty sure it says ‘pump’, Dad,” corrected our son.

Last night I was reduced to travelling to an aged aunt’s home for a bath.

“I’ve run it for you,” she cooed, “and I’ve put your favourite Matey bubbles in it.”

She even wanted to wash my hair.

“Aunt Doris,” I protested, “I’m 62 years old.”

“Same old Michael,” she laughed, “scared of getting shampoo in your eyes. “Do you remember how you used to scream and scream and hold your breath until you were blue in the face when I tried to wash your hair? I used to have to get your mother to help hold you.”

“That was because I was 24, Aunt Doris,” I pointed out acidly.

The almost forgotten happiness of slipping into a hot bath! I emerged from under the thick layer of milk white suds to discover my aunt standing feet away in her favourite pink nightie and fluffy slippers. “What the bloody hell are you doing?” I demanded, desperately trying to hide my embarrassment behind a flannel.

“I’ve bought you a nice mug of drinking chocolate and some digestive biscuits,” she beamed.

“I’ll bet it was bliss,” sighed the wife as I recounted the bath-time incident, “as much hot water as you want flowing out of a tap.”

“It was,” I agreed, “until I sat on a toy submarine she put in it.

“Mind you,” I added, “it’s better than having to to strip in front of the kitchen sink for a quick wash. I find that so degrading.”

“And unfair on the postman,” Julie pointed out. “You want to try pulling the blinds down. I passed him running down the drive with a look of panic on his face.”

“What did he say?” I asked, colouring slightly.

“He said, ‘I’m not sure where your husband wants me to stick these’ and shoved a fistful of crumpled letters in my hand.”

Strange, strange chap.

We’re reduced to visiting those in our support bubble-bath to simply keep warm.

‘‘We’re about to have supper,” said a distant cousin, shocked to find the entire Lockley household on her doorstep. “Can I put anything on for you?” “A couple of radiators would be nice,” we chorused.

“And one of those portable fan heaters, if you’ve got one,” I added. “Sit down! Sit down! And take your balaclavas off,” said her husband as we limped into the living room. “You seem to be making yourselves at home, stammered the distant cousin as she walked in the room with a tray of tea and biscuits. “One of you on each radiator – that’s nice.” “Why don’t we,” mocked her husband, “go in the kitchen and open the oven door – make a real party of it? Should be a real blast – a blast of hot air.

“Don’t stick your head inside, though – we’ve got a chicken in there.”

After an uncomfortable hour-and-a-half we made our excuses and left.

“It’s been a superb evening,” I assured the concerned couple. “I can’t remember when a family reunion left such a warm feeling – in my fingers.”

Internet went down yesterday, so I spent the night chatting to my wife. Surprised to learn she doesn’t work for Woolworths any more.