G&Ts are wonderful things
Posted: 12 Oct 2020 21:09
Life here at number 36 has been a touch testing these past ten days; you may want to settle down with a strong drink before reading any further . . . After 17 years Bar & I decided that the time was more than ripe for our almost threadbare carpet in the lounge to be replaced. In the past we simply couldn't face the upheaval of shifting three bookcases, the china cabinet, chairs and tables etc but we were so ashamed of the old carpet that - on the spur of the moment after delivering stuff early to a charity shop in our High Street (pedestrianised before 10am) - we parked on the spur of the moment in the town's Broad Street where a little family-run carpet shop is located. Double yellow lines everywhere, but we reasoned that having not seen a traffic warden in town for several years, we'd be okay.
Carried the (heavy) carpet sample books back to the car, and found a £30 parking ticket on Gab's windscreen! Two Community Police Officers (mere slips of girls) were strolling away further up the street. (This isn't the first time I've fallen foul of these girls - some years ago I was legally parked when two of 'em wandered past and gave me a friendly smile. I perhaps unwisely responded by saying that never in my - then - seventy years had I fancied a policeman. One of the sour pussies turned on me, threatening that my comment could be construed as sexist and "morally aggressive" - that phrase has stuck in my mind ever since!)
Anyhoo, back to Bennett Towers, where the fateful choice of carpet was made, an appointment arranged, and the frantic clearance of furniture etc begun; the adjacent rooms rapidly assumed the appearance of an provincial auction room. The awful state of the once-maroon carpet was revealed in all its shabby glory.
Cometh the day, cometh the men. Bar and I retreated to the upstairs back bedroom where we have a bed-settee, armed with books and a kettle to ride out the storm. An hour or so later, one of the fitters called up the stairs with the fateful announcement, "Oy mate, we've nailed through yer gas pipe".
Our ancient 1970s gas fire in the lounge is/was fed by a pipe running around the edge of the room, beneath our wall-to-wall bookcases and, from there, beneath a load bearing wall before arriving at the meter tucked in an almost inaccessible corner of the kitchen. As the punctured pipe was happily hissing away to itself I very promptly vanished into the cupboard and turned the gas main off. By now the senior fitter had run 999 to report the leak and - impressively - the Southern Gas Networks bloke arrived only ten minutes later. He studied the situation and promptly condemned the installation as being "excessively dangerous", locking off the meter in case I fancied myself with some chewing gum and a roll of gaffer tape. Hmm. Seems when the house was built in 1970 the gas fire's pipe was only just laid into the concrete floor with a very, very thin skimming above it. So thin, indeed, that when the carpet fitters were happily nailing the carpet grips around the skirting boards, one of the hardened steel pins (just a shade over half-an-inch long) punctured the gas pipe.
The good news was, as he told us, that because Bar and I are both on the utilities services vulnerable persons register and - as his actions had removed our source of heat and hot water - he'd give us a free 2-kilowatt fan heater! Well, whoopee. The bad news was that modern building regs would insist on having the concrete floor dug up and the entire run of copper gas pipe replaced by one shielded within a steel conduit buried "at least eight inches below the surface of the floor".
Well that seemed to be the end of play for the fitters, who'd only laid two-thirds of the carpet before scarpering. So, with a stiff G&T to hand, I telephoned an old-established local firm, the company who for the past twelve years has serviced our combi boiler and fire, to ask for urgent help. The receptionist took my details and then solemnly informed me that, due to a heavy workload, their surveyor wouldn't be with us until "the end of October" before our job could join the long queue.
Aha! thought I - ring the carpet shop and lay the problem on them; after all it was their fitters who did the damage. Finally got through to the boss (who, surprise surprise, already knew about the issue) and I was alarmed to learn that their insurance didn't cover damage to "badly laid service pipes not laid according to current building regs". (Top up the G&T.)
So then I rang the house insurance folk who admitted that under their terms they were only obliged to call the SGN emergency line whose fitter would attend and isolate the building. Which I'd already done. They also cheerfully reminded me of the £100 excess premium charged on each claim. (Topped up the G&T once more.)
The building was still in a state of chaos and, at that point, we decided to get the fitters back and tell them to finish laying the ruddy carpet so that at least we could return Bennett Towers to something like normal. Which they did - kindly bringing with them the shop's spare 2-kilowatt oil-filled heater (a touch of guilt there maybe?) As the thrice-damned combi boiler replaced the immersion heater and hotwater tank, we not only had no central heating but no way of showering either, but at least we could heat the living room with the two unexpected gifts while we worked out what to do next.
The carpet guys also brought along their tame gas fitter who confirmed the SGN fitter's opinion - ie major excavations if we needed the gas pipe restored to the fire, something whose bill would run into the thousands due to the access work involved and the uplifting of the brand new carpet. We came to the only logical conclusion (other than suicide) which was to have the fire's feed from the meter capped at the meter, the fire removed - it was after all 50 years old - and have an electric heater put in its place.
No doubt sensing an opportunity, the fitter suggested that if we went down that route he'd turn up the following weekend and do the isolating work for £250 cash. He gave us his mobile number just in case we wanted him to do the job. Armed with a restorative G&T I rang the carpet shop and suggested that a) despite the accident being an Act of God, and b) this lapsed Congregational agonstic was convinced there'd be no help from On High anyway, wouldn't it be only fair if we each paid half to settle the matter? Which, to my astonishment, they readily agreed.
There was, of course, a snag. The meter hides in a dark corner of the kitchen, buried beneath the fitted cupboards. For the work to be done, those units would need to be emptied and dismantled, and the pipework exposed. The peripatetic fitter could do that but his bill would be at least treble, plus it wouldn't be the weekend cash job. Perhaps understandably I elected to get the units removed myself even though there was a good danger of the bottom row of tiles adjacent to the units' tops being damaged. We were beyond caring though (although the G&Ts were helping numb us).
Then, at last, our luck turned. Our lovely young(ish) neighbour had spotted all the comings and goings and rang to enquire whether we were okay. It was probably the hysterical weeping that alerted Glen to the fact that no, we bloody well were NOT okay.
Two minutes later he arrived, assessed the problem and offered himself and his son to remove the units that evening if we would empty them of all the general cooking utensils and associated junk which seems to migrate to the backs of kitchen cupboards. "Now ring the fitter," the dear man suggested, "and tell him the kitchen will be available from tomorrow! I could have kissed him (but no, I don't see the attractions that the girls seem to enjoy). He and Robert duly turned up, carefully removed the units and - joy of joys - didn't harm any of the tiles.
The gas fitter - plus mate - arrived at 4:30pm on Sunday and did the business in good time. Unfortunately, in order to disconnect the fire's pipe and yet maintain a feed to the upstairs boiler, he had to install a new, thick pipe horizontally where none had existed previously. And so, of course, the blessed kitchen units wouldn't fit until they'd been laboriously-sawn, filed and comprehensively sworn at in order to accommodate said pipe. Which I set to, armed with a small wobbly keyhole saw and a coarse rat-tailed file. Awkward work. Mind you, the G&T helped . . .
This (Monday) morning the two heroes from number 37 arrived as promised, trial-fitted the two units and - without actually sighing heavily, glaring at me, or accusing me of inebriation - dragged them back out so they could do my sawing/filing properly before installing them correctly. Bar and I then shovelled all the junk back into the dark corners, tottered into the lounge and collapsed with a stiff - well, I'm sure you can guess what. We've also had to purchase a sexy new Dimplex electric fire (which masquerades as an open coal-burning fire) in order to fill the space now vacated by the dear departed gas fire.
So, to recap; that tiny pin has cost us £125 for the gas fitter, £720 for the Dimplex fire, almost an entire bottle of gin, two bottles of lemon tonic water, much anguish, some disturbed nights' sleep worrying about the outcome, and of course the initial £30 parking ticket. The good news is that the carpet looks fine. It'll have to - I shall long be in the cold, cold ground before we buy another one.
.
Carried the (heavy) carpet sample books back to the car, and found a £30 parking ticket on Gab's windscreen! Two Community Police Officers (mere slips of girls) were strolling away further up the street. (This isn't the first time I've fallen foul of these girls - some years ago I was legally parked when two of 'em wandered past and gave me a friendly smile. I perhaps unwisely responded by saying that never in my - then - seventy years had I fancied a policeman. One of the sour pussies turned on me, threatening that my comment could be construed as sexist and "morally aggressive" - that phrase has stuck in my mind ever since!)
Anyhoo, back to Bennett Towers, where the fateful choice of carpet was made, an appointment arranged, and the frantic clearance of furniture etc begun; the adjacent rooms rapidly assumed the appearance of an provincial auction room. The awful state of the once-maroon carpet was revealed in all its shabby glory.
The good news was, as he told us, that because Bar and I are both on the utilities services vulnerable persons register and - as his actions had removed our source of heat and hot water - he'd give us a free 2-kilowatt fan heater! Well, whoopee. The bad news was that modern building regs would insist on having the concrete floor dug up and the entire run of copper gas pipe replaced by one shielded within a steel conduit buried "at least eight inches below the surface of the floor".
Well that seemed to be the end of play for the fitters, who'd only laid two-thirds of the carpet before scarpering. So, with a stiff G&T to hand, I telephoned an old-established local firm, the company who for the past twelve years has serviced our combi boiler and fire, to ask for urgent help. The receptionist took my details and then solemnly informed me that, due to a heavy workload, their surveyor wouldn't be with us until "the end of October" before our job could join the long queue.
Aha! thought I - ring the carpet shop and lay the problem on them; after all it was their fitters who did the damage. Finally got through to the boss (who, surprise surprise, already knew about the issue) and I was alarmed to learn that their insurance didn't cover damage to "badly laid service pipes not laid according to current building regs". (Top up the G&T.)
So then I rang the house insurance folk who admitted that under their terms they were only obliged to call the SGN emergency line whose fitter would attend and isolate the building. Which I'd already done. They also cheerfully reminded me of the £100 excess premium charged on each claim. (Topped up the G&T once more.)
The building was still in a state of chaos and, at that point, we decided to get the fitters back and tell them to finish laying the ruddy carpet so that at least we could return Bennett Towers to something like normal. Which they did - kindly bringing with them the shop's spare 2-kilowatt oil-filled heater (a touch of guilt there maybe?) As the thrice-damned combi boiler replaced the immersion heater and hotwater tank, we not only had no central heating but no way of showering either, but at least we could heat the living room with the two unexpected gifts while we worked out what to do next.
The carpet guys also brought along their tame gas fitter who confirmed the SGN fitter's opinion - ie major excavations if we needed the gas pipe restored to the fire, something whose bill would run into the thousands due to the access work involved and the uplifting of the brand new carpet. We came to the only logical conclusion (other than suicide) which was to have the fire's feed from the meter capped at the meter, the fire removed - it was after all 50 years old - and have an electric heater put in its place.
No doubt sensing an opportunity, the fitter suggested that if we went down that route he'd turn up the following weekend and do the isolating work for £250 cash. He gave us his mobile number just in case we wanted him to do the job. Armed with a restorative G&T I rang the carpet shop and suggested that a) despite the accident being an Act of God, and b) this lapsed Congregational agonstic was convinced there'd be no help from On High anyway, wouldn't it be only fair if we each paid half to settle the matter? Which, to my astonishment, they readily agreed.
There was, of course, a snag. The meter hides in a dark corner of the kitchen, buried beneath the fitted cupboards. For the work to be done, those units would need to be emptied and dismantled, and the pipework exposed. The peripatetic fitter could do that but his bill would be at least treble, plus it wouldn't be the weekend cash job. Perhaps understandably I elected to get the units removed myself even though there was a good danger of the bottom row of tiles adjacent to the units' tops being damaged. We were beyond caring though (although the G&Ts were helping numb us).
Then, at last, our luck turned. Our lovely young(ish) neighbour had spotted all the comings and goings and rang to enquire whether we were okay. It was probably the hysterical weeping that alerted Glen to the fact that no, we bloody well were NOT okay.
Two minutes later he arrived, assessed the problem and offered himself and his son to remove the units that evening if we would empty them of all the general cooking utensils and associated junk which seems to migrate to the backs of kitchen cupboards. "Now ring the fitter," the dear man suggested, "and tell him the kitchen will be available from tomorrow! I could have kissed him (but no, I don't see the attractions that the girls seem to enjoy). He and Robert duly turned up, carefully removed the units and - joy of joys - didn't harm any of the tiles.
This (Monday) morning the two heroes from number 37 arrived as promised, trial-fitted the two units and - without actually sighing heavily, glaring at me, or accusing me of inebriation - dragged them back out so they could do my sawing/filing properly before installing them correctly. Bar and I then shovelled all the junk back into the dark corners, tottered into the lounge and collapsed with a stiff - well, I'm sure you can guess what. We've also had to purchase a sexy new Dimplex electric fire (which masquerades as an open coal-burning fire) in order to fill the space now vacated by the dear departed gas fire.
So, to recap; that tiny pin has cost us £125 for the gas fitter, £720 for the Dimplex fire, almost an entire bottle of gin, two bottles of lemon tonic water, much anguish, some disturbed nights' sleep worrying about the outcome, and of course the initial £30 parking ticket. The good news is that the carpet looks fine. It'll have to - I shall long be in the cold, cold ground before we buy another one.
.
