Is it any wonder people get depressed in January? Something really sinister happens at this time of year. It begins, of course, with the boiler breaking down. This is only to be expected in heavy snow because boilers are not machines. They are sentient beings with malicious personal agendas. They wait patiently until it gets really cold then start dripping and spluttering and making pathetic choking noises that sound ever so slightly like ‘help! I’m dying!’ until you are forced to call out Tony the plumber.
There are many baffling things about plumbers but by far the most baffling thing about mine is that he always charges exactly the same amount of money — £326.20 — no matter what you ask him to do. This is terrific value if you want a new bathroom putting in but not so good if you just want a radiator with a stuck knob turned down. To call Tony you’ve got to be damned sure that what you are dealing with is £326.20’s worth of trouble.
This time it was touch and go. At first he said, ‘Not much wrong here, just needs a quick service…’ I thought, oh, God, no! Please let it be more than that. ‘I’ve changed my mind,’ I said, wondering whether I could get away with physically pushing him out of the house before he touched anything. ‘I’ve decided I want to let it drip. I quite like the drip. Yes, it’s all part of the atmosphere in the kitchen, you see, the bucket, and the towels everywhere. Makes it more cosy…’ But it was too late. Tony was enthusiastically pulling the boiler to pieces at an estimated cost, if it was just needing a quick service, of about £5 a minute. Luckily, however, once he started rummaging he found a whole section that needed replacing. ‘Yes!’ I exclaimed, punching the air. Things were looking up. Then a screw revealed itself to be corroded and took hours to coax out. ‘Back of the net!’ I cried triumphantly as Tony did battle with his pliers.
It was three days’ work in the end, as we had to wait for snowed-in warehouses to reopen and provide parts. So, all in all, a tremendous result. Having to wear a ski suit around the house, eat my dinner wearing gloves and almost freeze to death during the night was a minor inconvenience.
All would have been well if my run of January mishaps had ended there. But, of course, it didn’t. No sooner was the boiler fixed than my car seat — also a thoroughly vindictive individual — decided to come off its rails, just because I took a corner too fast while driving home from Sainsbury’s.
A car seat that will not bear with you as you skid like the clappers round a bend in order to be home in time to see who has killed Archie on EastEnders is a despicable creature but there we are. As I swerved into my road sending shopping bags flying all over the place, the wretched thing signalled its high-handed disapproval of my moral priorities with a horrible clunk then flew off its runners.
The mechanic had to fix it in one place until he could find the parts to mend it properly, so now I am driving around with my knees steering the car by themselves.
I don’t mind. It’s not as if there is anywhere I want to go during this most hideous of months. (Is it something to do with the fact that I was born in January? Am I inducing disasters because I am having subliminal flashbacks to the trauma of leaving the womb? Or is January just rubbish generally?)
The sales are a liability. I’ve been twice and both times managed to get to the till with my arms full of the only items in the shop not reduced in price.
The tantalising stickers emblazoned with ‘50 per cent off!’ which seemed to flicker from every corner of the store magically receded whenever I put my hand on something with the intention of buying it. It was like a Sale oasis.
I have a vague memory of wandering around some overheated shops in a profuse sweat, tremblingly weak and partially blinded by a sea of glimmering sale tags. Every time I got close enough to reach out and grab an item, the luscious red tags would reveal themselves to be on something else a few feet away. Then when I approached those items the tags would not be there either. Many, many hundreds of pounds later I walked away dazed and with no recollection of why I had ever decided to go and buy things I didn’t need in the first place.
Still, at least I’ve got my tax bill to look forward to.
Melissa Kite is deputy political editor of the Sunday Telegraph.
Comments