Home Front

When we started subscribing to satellite television, I made the mistake of being out. I left Mr Home Front in charge when the engineer arrived to install everything.

When I came home, I found the dish – larger than I’d anticipated – was not placed up high like every other customer’s, but fixed to the wall four feet above the ground next to our patio doors. The back of our house looked like a GCHQ listening post. ‘Why have they put it there?’ I asked. ‘Why shouldn’t it be there?’ said Mr HF with the air of shifty feigned innocence that accompanies all his domestic disasters. ‘Because it’s so ugly! It’s ridiculous! And the wisteria will cover it in no time and then it won’t work!’

‘Of course it will – these dishes are all high-tech now.’

‘But I specifically asked you to make sure they fix it high up. Why did you let him get away with just putting it there?’ ‘Stop going on. It’ll be fine.’ But it wasn’t fine. Every time there was heavy rain or wind – interference. Every time the wisteria grew – interference. Mr HF dealt with this latter annoyance by hacking the wisteria back intermittently with a pair of shears. This infuriated me; it’s the only plant I’ve grown successfully. Repeated requests that he get the company back to relocate the dish fell on deaf ears.

Wisteriagate came to a head during lockdown. Mr HF got the shears out for some more hacking as interference stopped him enjoying Where Eagles Dare.

I rushed outside and stood in front of the wisteria like a deranged eco-warrior protecting an ancient tree from developers. ‘I’m not budging until you phone that company!’ ‘Why don’t you phone them?’ ‘I did. They’ll only speak to the account-holder…’

Days later, a text from Betty alerted me to the fact that not one but three satellite engineers had arrived while I was upstairs painting: ‘Come down quick! They’re refusing to move the dish and Daddy’s letting them get away with it.’

I downed my brushes and dashed downstairs to the patio. Here, to my dismay, Mr HF was holding court, cracking jokes and calling them ‘lads’ in the same blokey voice he adopted for the pest-control man when we had rats.

‘I understand there’s a problem with the dish,’ I interrupted, with a hint of Penelope Keith.

‘Er, yeah,’ said engineer No 1. ‘That dish can’t get a signal ’cos of that bush.’ He tossed his head towards a tall, purple-leafed perennial in the garden.

‘And the wisteria,’ I said. ‘Whenever the tendrils grow, the signal fails. That’s why we’ve called you out – to get the dish moved up higher.’ ‘Not possible.’ ‘Why not?’ ‘Health and safety.’ ‘But it’s your job to move it!’ daughter Betty exclaimed from inside the house.

Everyone fell silent at this sudden unexpected contribution.

‘No need for rudeness, young lady,’ said No 1. ‘Very rude,’ agreed No 2. ‘Yeah,’ said No 3. ‘But surely you chaps are climbing ladders all day?’ I asked, like Ian Carmichael in I’m All Right Jack.

‘Yeah, but it’s all red tape now,’ said No 1. ‘We’ve got to get permssion from the office to go on a sloping roof like that.’ ‘But it doesn’t slope all that much.’ ‘Sorry, those are the rules.’ The others murmured agreement. The only character missing from this tableau was shop steward Fred Kite, crying, ‘Everyone out!’

‘How about the side of the house, then?’ I persisted. ‘Sloping roof?’ asked No 1 suspiciously. ‘No – it’s a flat roof. I sometimes go up there to clean the landing window. It’s perfectly safe!’

‘If it’s that safe, you do it, then!’ blurted out No 2. They all burst into appreciative laughter – including Mr HF, who stopped abruptly when he saw me glowering at him.

The side of the house was ruled logistically tricky. So it was back to square one.

Eventually, Team Home Front bored them into submission.

No 1 reluctantly went away and phoned for permission to climb a ladder. Minutes later, they returned from their van wearing hard hats and grim expressions, as though they were going into Chernobyl after the explosion.

One dismantled the old satellite dish and the other held the ladder, while the third got on to the roof and installed an upgraded one to the wall in less time than we’d taken talking about it.

As they were packing away, I poked my head out of the upstairs window and called down a cheery thank-you. ‘It looks lovely,’ I added absurdly when no one responded.

‘We’d better get overtime for this,’ I overheard No 1 say. ‘Too right.’ ‘Yeah.’ They left without saying goodbye. At the time of writing, the wisteria is in full bloom. The satellite dish stands where it should have been in the first place. And Where Eagles Dare is back on the box.

The only interference now is Mr HF quoting Richard Burton’s lines before he says them.