What Do I Know?

Weather or Not

Wishful thinking?

I was all set to blog about the weather this morning, and then I read that it might get to 30° (86F) this week. (Caveat: "might" is the operative word. Other models suggest that it will only get to 26°, and that's in the Midlands, one spot in England, while the rest of the country will have temperatures in the lower twenties.) So, with the prospect of actual summer weather on its way, I can't exactly succumb to another round of whinging about the weather, can I? 

Oh, watch me. It's been unseasonably cold all spring, and unseasonably cool for the past month. My car thermometer reads "59" every time I look at it, leading me to believe it's stuck in the fifties (Fareinheit—my car speaks American). I'm really sick and tired of wearing several layers just to walk the dog. 

I remember when I moved here and the first summer, we had several days with highs in the fifties. I thought that was unusual, but my hairdresser told me it was perfectly normal. I dismissed that as British pessimism, but she was right. Summers here can have lovely spells, which is why I tend not to go anywhere during the summer months, determined as I am to eek out every morsel of rare good weather, but these spells are intersperced with weeks of damp, cold, misery.

This chill, this cold damp, is not what I think of when I think "summer." I grew up in the American South, where a cold blast of air conditioning was a welcome thing, where afternoons were for staying indoors and keeping cool anyway you could. 

Summers are supposed to be hot. Summers are for wearing shorts and sundresses. These days, when I see someone wearing shorts and sleeveless tops, I feel a stab of jealousy. And beach photos turn me positively green: do you people in warm climates know how lucky you are? (Wisconsin and Minnesota, I'm including you in this.) 

I'm starting to really hate Floridians, with their beach parties and bikinis and shimmery tans. I see you all up on Facebook, lounging next to your pools, bobbing your babies in their cute little blowup duckies, wearing sunshades the size of melons. I want a piece of that—the melon, too. It just doesn't get hot enough here for good watermelon. Sigh.

If it does hit 30 on Wednesday—86; that sounds warmer—I'll ransack my drawers looking for the one pair of denim shorts I own, and throw them on while I take the dog for a walk in the hottest part of the day. I'll have to slather on sunscreen, since my limbs haven't been touched by the sun in at least three years. On the other hand, if it's only 23°, I'll engage in more whinging, since I've learned to do that really well.

D-Day, Remembered

Gravesites at the American Cemetery in Normandy.

Today is the anniversary of D-Day, the day when Allied forces took the plunge and invaded France in an effort to stop Germany from occupying all of Europe. 

It worked.

Here's a few photos from our visit to Normandy in 2008: 

Written in rocks on the beach at Colleville-sur-Mer, otherwise known as Omaha Beach. 

The spot where the Allied forces landed is lovely, 69 years later. 

Something beautiful grew at the site of the landing. 

If I ever go back to Normandy I'd like to visit the British, Canadian, and yes, the German cemeteries. I've heard each is different from the pristine American cemetery, with its rows and rows of crosses and the occasional Star of David.

But my visit there was a reminder, of how far we've come. And how much there is to lose.  

The Weird Incident of the Unhidden Bone

A bone in the other side of his mouth, Sparky looks for a hiding place.

Sparky's acting very weird. About a half hour ago I gave him a bone. He took it outside, as he often does when I leave the back door open. I went out to say "hi" (with no intention to take his bone, I swear!) and he got up and moved to the side of the house. I peered around the corner, and he came back, with the bone in his mouth, and went to the other side of the house. I figured I was making him nervous, so I came inside, but peeked out the window. He was walking around, with the bone in his mouth, as if he were looking for a place to put it.

So I waited about ten minutes, and then looked outside. He was at the back of the garden, by the fence, looking a little bit like he'd been caught in the act. 

I took a photo, since I'd gone outside thinking to get some good shots of him on a sunny day (rare around here!). He walked to the side of the house again, with the bone in his mouth, and I went inside and called my husband, describing the dog's behaviour. I interspersed my commentary with talk about the manufacturing report I'd been reading, since I didn't want Sparky to overhear and become suspicious. 

Then I watched through the window as Sparky went into the rose bed appeared to bury his bone.

That was all about twenty minutes ago. I just peeked, and he's got the bone again, looking for a safer spot to hide it I guess. Maybe he overheard me telling my husband on the phone what he was doing and figured he better outsmart us.

Often, when I give Sparky a bone I hide it in the living room, and he enjoys finding it before he eats it. This time I didn't do that. 

I wonder if he wishes I had? 

I know dogs hide their bones sometimes. It's almost a cliché, the dog hiding a bone. But Sparky's never done it. He's not really into clichés, preferring to be an Original.

Now he's inside, having safely hidden the bone again. See that look of innocence?

"Bone? I don't know nothin' 'bout no bone."

On a related note, if you want to see where I buy his bones, our local pet shop, Desborough Pets, was a location for a couple of scenes in this BBC comedy, Not Going Out (based on Three's Company). The show itself is kind of stupid, but if you're into dumb BBC comedy, you might like it. Except for the part where the rabbit dies. Both rabbits, actually.

See? Britain can be a scary place for pets. No wonder Sparky decided to hide his bone, just in case.

Update: 

After dinner we went outside, and Sparky wandered down to the stream, where he started digging something from the muddy bank. His bone. It was waterlogged and soft, since it was rawhide. He shook it to shake the dirt off, then ate it. 

Finding his bone in the stream bank.

Eating the waterlogged bone. What a weird dog! 

Friday Sheep Blogging

Mum has a lie-in while Baby dines.

Last week we went to Avebury, after visiting Stonehenge (with a stop in Cherhill to see the White Horse). By the time we got to Avebury the sun was shining, and I took full advantage with my Nikon. 

Avebury, the largest stone circle in Europe, is one of several ancient monuments in the area, including Silbury Hill. The village of Avebury lies within the circle, the road zigzaging through the quadrants of the circle. Sheep graze the grass between the stones, alternating among the quadrants, with their droppings ever-present. 

There are always lambs this time of year, though by May they're large enough to be mistaken for full grown sheep. The sheep at Avebury are used to people, so don't usually shy away when you approach with your camera. Still, I try not to bother them too much, approaching from the side and with my gaze fixed on the rock, as if that's why I'm there. 

I think we all know I go to Avebury for the sheep, not the stones. 

Here are more photos, some with the rapeseed fields in the background, a common site in May: 

Rape fields in the distance provide a bit of colour to an otherwise green landscape. 

These two sheep with their mouths open appear to be singing to that lamb.

Number 109 prefers the shade of the stone.

One lone sheep; one lone rock. 

"Baaahhh."

That's all, folks. 

May Flowers

In Avebury, lilacs bloom outside the vegetarian B&B. 

It's pretty dreary today: rain, with a high temperature of about 50F. We're paying for the last few days, when the sun has been out almost non-stop and the temperatures broached 60F. 

To cheer myself up I'm looking at the photos I've taken during the last couple of weeks, when the bluebells were at their peak and gardens were overflowing with bright azaleas and rhododendrons. 

While my houseguest was here, we went to Kew Gardens. Here's the glass house there, which was steamy and warm inside, compared to a breezy cool day outside. 

The Palm House at Kew

I found bluebells in Wendover Woods, near Hedgerley, and at Kew near Queen Charlotte's Cottage. We also stopped at Cowleaze Woods, not far from the M40, to take a few shots there, and at Nymans, a 600 acre country estate in West Sussex, we discovered a bluebell trail winding through the woods.

Wild garlic growing at Kew Gardens, with bluebells bringing up the rear.

The first bluebell shots I took this year were at Cowleaze Woods, after a day out at Blenheim Palace. The trees hadn't yet greened out, but a week later the green contrasted nicely with the deep blue. 

One of my favorite places for bluebell pictures is Wendover Woods, near Aylesbury. I love how the path winds through the bluebell carpet. 

At Nymans National Trust garden in West Sussex, the bluebell trail meanders under a canopy of trees.

Soon the bracken, just unfurling now, will hide any trace that there were once bluebells in Church Wood near Hedgerley. 

I saw other colours of flowers, too: these orange azaleas at Nymans

A knot garden at Nymans

Forget-me-nots, my other favorite blue flower, at Nymans

I think this was a tulip, but it was growing in a bed of peonies. Still, I'm going with tulip since the tulip leaves were clearly visible beneath. 

Another tulip at Nymans

I love these pink and white rhodies, better than the hot pink gaudy ones.

Of all the flowers I've seen lately, these are my favorites: my anniversary roses.

Dear Lady: Your Dogs Are Out of Control

This is what a dog under control looks like: returning to me after I call him.

Here's the deal: If your dogs are coming after mine, regardless if one is wearing a muzzle, I'm going to say something to you. I've taught my dog not to react the way his instincts told him to, by barking and lunging at dogs when he's afraid of them, and instead use other means of communication to tell other dogs he's not interesting in engaging with them. It's now my duty to protect him when he's doing the right thing, and your dogs aren't. If your feelings get hurt in the process, too bad. My dog—and his training—is more important to me than your feelings. 

Today at Black Park there were lots of dogs, since it was a nice Bank Holiday Monday. Most were fine; Sparky goes wide on the path or swerves into the brush to avoid meeting them face to face; something he (and most dogs) consider rude. 

But then two boxer-like dogs come toward us, one wearing a muzzle. The white one goes after Sparky, who has swerved into the brush, so Sparky comes toward us, looking for help. That's when the other dog joins in the "fun", and both dogs chase after Sparky, who I've motioned to run forward in an effort to avoid confrontation. I also put my hand out toward the two boxers, hoping to halt their progress or at least alert their owner to the fact there's a problem here: I don't feel comfortable around large dogs any more than Sparky does, frankly, especially when I see one has already been deemed aggressive enough to wear a muzzle. 

When the dogs pursued Sparky, I told the lady to call her dogs. At this point, I was a bit angry that she hadn't already done so, as anyone else would have immediately if they noticed their dogs becoming too interested in another dog who was clearly trying to avoid them. She shouted that he was wearing a muzzle. "I don't care; my dog doesn't like to be chased!" I replied. 

Then I told her she needed to teach them recall, since in my experience, the number one reason owners don't recall their dogs when necessary is because they know they can't, and they want to avoid embarrassment. 

After this she called me a stupid bitch, and I just laughed. Because she's the one who's stupid. If your dog is wearing a muzzle, there's even more reason to teach recall: One day a dog will take offense to your dog's rude behavior, and will respond with a bite. Or two. Your dog won't be able to reply with his teeth, which is going to make him pretty angry, and more likely to snap the next time he's out without a muzzle. A dangerous situation you've created by not keeping your dog under control—and by this I mean preventing him from practicing rude behavior around other dogs or people. 

My number one loyalty is to my dog, not to your feelings. I'm also American, and I wasn't bred to avoid confrontation the way so many of your fellow British countrymen are. I will tell you off next time you allow your dogs to chase mine, and publicly embarrass you if that's what it takes. I'll also be happy to explain how you can teach your dog recall: it's not hard. If I can do it, anyone can. 

Your dogs will be a lot better off, and so will your feelings.

But if it makes you feel better to call me a stupid bitch, go right ahead. I've been called worse when defending dogs in your country.

Teach your dog to stop on a dime and return to you when you whistle or call; it will save you lots of grief one day.

Friday Cow Blogging

Cows at Stonehenge, near the Bronze Age burial mounds

Before I go any further, I should point to this BBC Radio 4 interview that features my hiking group on the programme Ramblings. I'm the second person interviewed by Clare Balding, and I talk about my love of the outdoors and walking, as well as my neverending search for a vacuum cleaner.

Okay. Go listen (it won't be up forever), then come back and admire these cows, who live at Stonehenge near the Bronze Age burial mounds. As you can see, the ever-present rape in the background is bright yellow despite the gloomy weather. A bit of sunshine, in the form of rapeseed flowers, is better than none at all, I always say. (Although I didn't get the chance to expound about my theory of rapeseed sun-replacement when Clare Balding interviewed me; we were too busy talking about vacuum cleaners and toasters.)

Fortunately, when we arrived at Avebury later in the afternoon the sun had come out and I got some really nice sheep photos (check back next week for those!). I've had a houseguest for three weeks, and our final outing was to Stonehenge and Avebury. I figure it's on me to make sure everyone who visits enjoys some of the many ancient monuments this country has to offer.

Not to mention the many fine species of cattle, sheep, and other livestock. 

I really do love the outdoors, as I said in the interview, even when the weather is rotten. And as much as I go on about the rotten weather, I really do love living here. 

Except for the vacuum cleaners. 

More cows:


A mother and her baby 


More young baby cows, just outside the Stonehenge carpark

Friday Sheep Blogging

When we were in Devon a couple of weeks ago I definitely saw more sheep than cows. But I did see this cow embedded in a hedge. At least I think that's what it is. 

When I climbed up the hedge to see what was on the other side, I found, no surprise, a field full of sheep:

I'm pretty sure there are more sheep than people, too, in Devon. My kind of place. 

Friday Sheep Blogging

We saw Number 10 on our walk the other day.

For you Americans, when we say "Number 10" here we mean Number 10, Downing Street, which is where the prime minister lives. (Unless he lives at Number 11.)

(And yes, I know that if you have to explain a joke it's no longer funny. Fortunately this one wasn't that funny to begin with, so no harm done.)

North Devon: Green Acres

Green acres and acres, in Exmoor

We spent last weekend in North Devon, just outside Exmoor National Park. Having just given a talk on "Creating Fresh Imagery" I was in the mood to create word images...and Devon, with its green, green pastures, is now my go-to image for "green". Nothing is as green as Devon. 

Want to describe someone's eyes? Someone's shirt? A slash of paint? Try a comparison to Devon's verdant pastures, where florescent green grass stretches for acres and acres. 

My camera can't do justice to the effect, but some of these photos will give you a visual taste of what Devon is like. 

A view from the edge of Exmoor.

We stayed in a cozy  way too small cottage. The inn next door was built in the 13th century, so I suspect, judging by the beams in the low ceiling and in a checkerboard across the walls, that this row of cottages wasn't much younger. I guess people were smaller then, and a two-seater sofa was all they required in the way of seating, but we were a little cramped. We actually left a day early, eager to get back to our spacious, modern house. (I actually had to sleep on that two-seater—i.e. love seat, for you Americans—since the dog couldn't go upstairs and he'd've been a bit frantic if we'd both disappeared up those treacherous steps to the loft.)

The Masons Arms, built in the 13th century. 

But enough of that. The area around the cottage, in Knowstone, was gorgeous. We walked down the lane, stopping to admire the views and the sheep every few feet, sometimes at the same time:

 

We took the dog to Dunster Estate, with acres and acres of forest and well-marked trails, in fact, it's due to our own ignorance we wandered around semi-lost much of the time. Our dog was in heaven: a new forest with lots of new smells and trails to explore, including a stream we had to ford several times as it wound back and forth over the path. 

Dunster Estate has the tallest trees in England: 

The view from the top of the trail:

The green valley:

Authentic old street signs, still in use near Dunster Estate:

More photos below:

Friday Cow Blogging

Cow lick: Unlike horses, cows just want to love you. With their tongues.

The other day I went on a hike in the Chilterns, near Saunderton and Lacey Green. Toward the end of the walk we saw a sweet cow, standing on the path in front of the gate. He sauntered off as we approached, and then we saw there were several young male cows (technically, they were steers, but who's looking?) in the pasture, on the other side of what would have been a fence if it had been complete. 

(No, I did not have the dog with me, for precisely this reason: so many animals are not properly fenced, and Sparky doesn't share my love for livestock.)

I asked this young cow and his buddies to pose for a few photos, and they obliged (as cows invariably do, unlike sheep).

Such friendly guys, just living the bachelor life on the green pasture. And then one of them, who must have been out sowing wild oats in the next field, snuck up behind us and started licking my friend's sweater, leaving a trace of slobber. She seemed a bit upset by this but I wouldn't have minded. Cow slobber, as I found out, is nothing like dog slobber. 

Sneaky Cow looks back, hurt that we didn't appreciate his impromptu affection.

One of the cows I was photographing seemed to want to smell me, so I put my hand out, and then he wanted to know what I tasted like, so he licked me. And then another wanted to lick me. (If you give a mouse a cookie...or a cow a sniff...) 

Cows have rough tongues, sort of like large, thick cat tongues. None of them showed any teeth, unlike the horses I tried to befriend at the Home of Rest for Horses. (It's no wonder I much prefer cows to horses!)

These guys looked to be less than a year old, not quite full grown, but old enough to be separated from their mums. I haven't seen any spring younguns in the pasture yet; maybe with the late spring their debut has been held up. 

I'll have more photos next week, of some sheep we came across in the same place. They were not quite as friendly as the cows, but then few animals are, I've found. 

Cows just want to love you. All over. With their fat tongues.

The guys were sad to see us leave.

The Many Ironies of the Boston Bombs

The real weapons of mass destruction

It is somewhat ironic that, the week that a weak gun control measure failed to exceed the votes in the Senate needed to overcome a filibuster, the Tsarnaev brothers used two bombs, rather than guns, to kill three people at the Boston Marathon. 

This is surely a moral victory for gun rights advocates, right? Bombs kill people too! Why ban guns (or in this case, require background checks at gun shows) when a criminally-minded individual can simply kill victims with another weapon, like a knife or a bomb.

But instead of supporting gun rights advocates' arguments, the story of the Boston bombers illustrates perfectly why we should keep guns out of the hands of people who would use them to harm innocent people. 

Because those bombs those would-be terrorists cooked up killed three people. Only three people! As awful as it is for three people to have lost their lives, those three innocent victims would have been joined by countless others at the morgue if the brothers had each carried a Bushmaster instead of a pressure cooker bomb. Each one could have mowed down dozens at the crowded finish line. The scores gravely wounded by the blasts would have turned into hundreds with bullets designed to expand upon impact, unlike the nails and BBs that packed the bombs. 

It appears the brothers used pyrotechnics to fuel their homemade bombs:

Tamerlan Tsarnaev bought two “good-size” mortar kits, consisting of tubes and shells, and black powder, said William Weimer, vice president of the store, Phantom. He said Tsarnaev paid $199.99 under a buy-one-get-one-free deal.

I had no idea this sort of thing was legal to buy, and frankly, I see no reason why it should be legal. Yet, mortar kits presumably have a use beyond killing people—which is why we don't ban cars, which are responsible for killing tens of thousands of people every year. Still, I suspect quite a few people will be clamoring for certain fireworks to be made illegal, or require, say, a background check before they can be purchased. And I'd be willing to bet some of the same people who called their senator and told him to vote "no" on background checks will be the ones clamoring for regulation of black powder. 

See? I told you this was ironic. 

The brothers did kill one man with a gun, which they'd obtained illegally. They used it to attack a police officer, apparently in hopes of taking his gun from him. Yet that gun was locked in a holster. A good lock kept this gun out of the hands of those who wanted to do harm. A good lock would have kept that Bushmaster out of Adam Lanza's hands, too, yet there are no laws in the US requiring guns to be locked when not in use.

It's not so easy to obtain guns in Massachusetts as it is in other states—the Commonwealth has some of the toughest gun laws in the United States. Perhaps if the brothers had lived in Texas they'd have bought Bushmasters and shot dozens dead at a Cowboys game. 

It's easy to imagine a scenario where many, many more could be killed at a large event, using perfectly legal weapons of mass destruction. Adam Lanza killed 26 people in five minutes. Imagine if there'd been two Adam Lanzas, and those two had decided to keep on killing rather than turn the gun on themselves... Imagine if the Columbine killers had kept on killing, rather than aimlessly wandering the halls and finally killing themselves. Ironically, a suicide bomber will almost always up the number of casualties when he's willing to die, yet killers with a gun lower the damage they inflict by those same suicidal instincts.

Around 85 people die every day in the United States due to gun violence. That's 28 Bostons. Every day.

Yet nothing at all is being done about it. No increased background checks, no magazine limits, no assault rifle bans. I guess those 85 people don't matter, because they weren't killed by a "proper" weapon of mass destruction. 

It's hard to imagine a terrorist bombing 85 people every day in America and getting away with it, isn't it?

Get Thee From Me, Garden Catalogs!

The "wicked plot" with which I tempted Fate last Spring

As I sit here typing, it is once again raining. The weather experts promise brighter weather ahead this weekend, after condemning us to a miserable March and equally miserly first two weeks of April. 

Last year about this time I inadvertently brought the wrath of the weather gods upon all of Britain: I bought garden furniture. I also bought flowers and plants and grass seeds. I planned to have a spectacular garden, which I'd enjoy from my new Lutyens bench, next to the chiminea on cool evenings. 

What was I thinking, tempting Fate with such abandon?

For the past several years, our plans had been in flux: we assumed we'd be moving back to the U.S. each of the previous few summers, so planting anything in the garden didn't seem worth it, nor did I see any reason to replace my old metal patio table with a new one.

But last year we knew we'd be staying on, at least through another year. So I indulged. But buying patio furniture is apparently one of the Seven Deadly Sins, and in this case, it resulted in Seven Deadly Months of rain and slugs. It's as if my capriciousness reached into the atmosphere and bent the jet stream, causing untold misery to millions. 

I'm pretty much all powerful like that.

The Lord hateth a "heart that devises wicked plots," the Proverbs claim. Buying garden furniture and annuals and potting soil is surely more wicked than Fifty Shades of Gray, which I also suspect had something to do with last summer's weather.

It's about time for the garden catalogs to arrive. I shall condemn them immediately to the recycle bin. I'm getting emails with tempting discounts from the many garden centres I signed up for last year, and I quickly send them to cyber hell. I haven't even uncovered my Lutyens bench; that would be like leaving home without an umbrella.

Our cold spring has meant the bluebells will likely be late this year. I saw signs of them in Hedgerley on Easter Sunday, the coldest Easter on record. The puny green shoots shivered in the mud, while about them daffodils regretted ever coming above ground.

Cold weather in January is one thing; cold temperatures in April are quite another. It didn't help that our boiler went out last Thursday. It took five days for the replacement to be installed, five days during which we shivered, most of the house shut off so we could contain the heat from the two space heaters the plumber loaned us. 

It's been great to have heat again these last few days (and more efficient heat at that!). But now I'd really like some of that heat outdoors. I'd like to take a walk without gloves and a scarf. I'd like to sit next to my chiminea and enjoy a piña colada...okay, I'm getting carried away. 

Even thinking of a piña colada could bend the jet stream.

If it hits 20C as predicted on Sunday, you can bet I'll celebrate. But I swear, as God is my witness, I willl never buy garden furniture again. 

It's Never Too Early to Arm Your Pre-Schooler

Does this come in Barney purple?

After the tragedy in Newtown, many people said that school teachers and administrative officials should be armed in order to prevent mass shootings on school campuses. 

Clearly, they missed the point. 

It's the children themselves who should be packing heat. 

In the last week, two four-year-olds in America have shot and killed people who presumably were threatening them. A deputy's wife was killed by a four-year-old who picked up a pistol and pulled the trigger, and a few days later another four-year-old shot and killed his six-year-old playmate. 

I think this demonstrates that you're never too young to handle a gun. 

Moms, dads, consider buying your pre-schoolers a Smith & Wesson when they beg for a new toy. Sign them up for NRA shooting lessons at the same time they get their booster shots. The risk that they might come to harm—from a crazed gunman, from a teacher who's having a bad day, or from a classmate with a grudge—is simply too high. 

An unarmed toddler is a statistic waiting to happen. 

Frankly, a parent who doesn't arm their child is no better than the parent who doesn't strap their baby in a car seat. Safety first, when it comes to our most precious resource: our children, whose gun-buying habits may provide just the stimulus this economy needs. (If cash is tight, consider cashing in that savings bond the grandparents gave your child when he was born.)

Gun manufacturers need to take care to provide age-appropriate pistols for their young customers. The hand grip needs to fit those small hands, more used to holding crayons than Walther P99s. And everyone knows young children are attracted to bright colors, so maybe a Barney-themed revolver would be the perfect gift to bring to that Chuckie Cheese birthday party. The parents of the birthday child will be grateful, and the other kids will be sure to invite your son or daughter to their birthday party. (Not being invited to a birthday party is a leading cause of playground arguments, which, of course, lead to playground shootings.)

And if your daughter is into My Little Pony, how about a My Little Pistol for riding the range? Older girls might want a Barbie assault rifle with expanding bullets. (Make sure the magazine is color-coordinated; you don't want your daughter to have to hide her unsightly weapon for fear of teasing.)

Remember, it's not guns that kill people. It's toddlers, and if your child spends much time with toddlers and pre-schoolers, you'll want to know he can protect himself.

If anyone tries to talk you out of making such a purchase—say, the overly cautious Wal-Mart associate who just started working in Sporting Goods and probably reads The Huffington Post while on break—remind him the Second Amendment guarantees the rights of all citizens to keep weapons, and last I checked, toddlers were citizens too. If that doesn't work, try having a tantrum. (Call it a "filibuster" though, if you want to be taken seriously.)

Boilers, Garages, and Torches

Sparky tries to stay warm under a blanket.

Yesterday I woke up to a cold house. Not that unusual, since I get up before the heat kicks on at 5:30, but by 5:45 I noticed the radiator still wasn't growing warm. I put it down to the time change, but later my husband investigated and discovered the boiler was out.

I only had a vague idea what a boiler was, but I knew it was a bad thing when they went out. I'm still not up on where they go when they "go out" but I've heard horror stories about what happens when they do, especially if it's over a holiday. And it wasn't just a simple matter of relighting the pilot light (which would be something I'd call in an expert for, frankly) but the thing was really, truly, "out". 

It meant that the water that flows through the radiators wasn't being heated by the boiler, which is apparently its job. The boiler is equal to a furnace in the States, then. Without one, the house doesn't have heat.

The house was already starting to chill. I called the aptly named Frost (our estate agent, which is like a real estate agent), who sent a plumber out to discover what the problem was.

That's right; a plumber, not an HVAC specialist, which is what would happen in the US. Because the boiler uses water, it's a plumbing problem. 

Fortunately the plumber isn't an ordinary Joe Plumber; this guy is really good at what he does. He's identified plumbing problems before and fixed them, after other plumbers were stumped. It's almost enough to make me take back every bad thing I've said about British plumbing. Almost.

He got to work and made some calls, wrote down some part numbers, and identified two parts that needed to be replaced. But there were other problems with the old boiler, which caused it to exhaust carbon monoxide to the outside vent. As soon as he said the word "carbon monoxide" I swooned. Not really, but I did stop listening, and apparently the landlord did too, or else saw lawsuits in his future, so the plumber was quickly given the go ahead to replace the whole thing with a newer, energy efficient model. 

Except not so quickly after all. Not-Joe the plumber will have to re-route the gas lines from the laundry room to the garage, where the new boiler will reside. It will be Tuesday or Wednesday before the thing is up and running. Meanwhile, he's loaned us two space heaters. 

And that's not all: The hot water heater, which runs from the same boiler, has an electric immersion backup, which blew up when the plumber tried to turn it on, creating a shock in the tank—fortunately, the fuse box did what it was supposed to do and averted disaster, though not a nasty scare when we heard the "pop!". After our discussion about carbon monoxide I was in swooning mode again, frankly.

Fortunately, Not-Joe the Plumber was able to find a new electrical immersion element and replace the old one, which was corroded and twisted. He seemed to think that was awesome, and even took a photo, so I did too: 

An electrical immersion element. At least I think that's what it's called, in one language I speak anyway. 

Here's the thing: I'm always a bit nervous when repairmen come to the house. It's hard enough for me to convey what's wrong with some gadget or another, not knowing the least thing about boilers and toilets and other residential mechanical ailments. But add to that my ignorance of the language, and I hesitate to say anything. The first time anyone came here to fix something he asked to see the "loft". "We don't have a loft," I replied, wondering if he'd mixed our property up with a chic London flat. He was incredulous, since clearly, we had an attic. It took both of us a few minutes to realize we weren't simply ignorant; we were speaking two different languages.

Even after all these years, yesterday I stupidly offered the plumber a flashlight. I quickly backtracked and offered him a "torch" instead. Which still strikes me as a bit ludicrous. A torch was the last thing I wanted to light, with possible gas leaks about the place. 

And then there's my reluctance to say the word "garage", the source of most things mechanical, including the "consumer unit". (That's a fuse box, for those of us who prefer a more descriptive English.) The word "garage" has a funny pronunciation here, as if someone who hated the French tried to pronounce it in the least French way they could, so it comes out "gair-ridge". That's just a sound that's fundamentally difficult for my American tongue to wrap 'round.

So I ended up handing the garage door opener to the guy, pointing in the direction of the "gaRADGE" and told him to open the "door". The word door is easily understood by anyone, I've found. 

Since I'll be spending three days with Not Joe next week, I'll have to brush up on my British English and figure out new ways to avoid saying "garage". Maybe from now on I can call it the "boiler room". 

In the meantime, I'm rethinking that torch idea. Some old fashioned fire would feel good just about now, but if I want to light my fireplace I'll have to call the gas service man, and who knows how that conversation would turn out.