Takes The Biscuit

A moron called at my house this morning. Or didn't. Or did. Who knows? If he did he lied about the time, and made no effort apart from maybe tapping on the back door with a glove to let me know he had arrived. I should have realised when Hugo hurtled upstairs, tail wagging madly, and danced excitedly around me. I thought he was pleased to see me after an absence of two minutes. Most dogs would have barked. I know what this behaviour means now. But it's too late. After waiting seven weeks for someone to attend to my Rayburn, I now have to wait another six. Weeks. He won't come back today though he surely must have time. Or tomorrow. I find his actions unbelievable. He didn't hammer on the door, or ring my number, he just came, or so he said, and then left. If there was someone else I could book to come I would, but in the whole of Suffolk there are just three heating engineers who handle Rayburns, and one of those won't touch newer versions like mine. The other ones are not to be trusted. I found this out by bitter experience and a lot of money. Thank goodness the boiler is working, though not properly. I can't get the heating to stay on when the water has reached maximum temperature, and nor can I make all the radiators work at once. But I'll survive.

I'm into winter pyjamas now, lovely thick flannelette ones that keep out the chill. The only problem with them, all five pairs that I own (I know), is that the legs and arms ride up constantly, exposing elbows and knees, and I spend the whole night waking up to pull them back into place. I've tried poppers, patent fasteners, safety pins, but none of these methods work. I've considered elastic, but think how foolish that would look, like a clown, or a toddler. I've thought of taking them in so that the sleeves and legs are too narrow to move. But life's too short. Much too short.