Menace of global warming

Breakages usually come in threes. Firstly and most catastrophically the boiler broke. It was being serviced but the engineer condemned it on the spot and switched it off saying it was dangerous. Secondly, that vital piece of machinery, the iron, stopped working. The third breakage was that of our complete resolve not to have a drink until Friday. Faced with a day of such adversity, what else could a man do?

It was not just the unreliability of the technology, there was the unreliability of humans as well. The new iron was duly bought, filled with water and plugged in. Some 20 seconds later, with the smell of burning plastic and cries of “Oh Shit” it was discovered that the iron came with a cunningly disguised thin opaque plastic covering over the business area, not immediately obvious to the purchaser, especially if that purchaser was That Nice Lady Decorator.

She was not alone in making crass mistakes though. After a trip to L A as the locals call Littlehampton and a quite unpleasant traipse around the sodden fields south of Arundel (yes, the rains have started and the drought warnings are a little less strident), I arrived home but could not find my phone. A half hour search which included close examination of the rubbish bin, thankfully now out of range of that dog, culminated with me considering it had been lost, when I suddenly saw it in the fruit bowl. It will never again be left on “silent”.

Global warming is a menace. Look what happened in Valbonne last winter.

So, thoroughly convinced that nothing would go right yesterday, and after a pint at both the Swan and the White Hart, after dinner, That Nice Lady Decorator reached for the Sky remote control to see what she could find in the way of televisual entertainment. I was braced for dozing off, dreaming of the benefits of having an account with Currencies Direct, in front of the fire whilst Poirot and Whycliffe meet Inspector Morse, Detective Inspector Frost and Agatha Christie to discuss Murder On The Orient Express and to solve the latest murder in Midsomer, or some similar twaddle, but I was in for a surprise. On the live TV schedules (as opposed to the dead or murdered programmes filling up the hard drive) was a programme on Channel 4 about dogging. Given the obsession in my household, not shared with me, for defending the indefensible antics of Banjo, a very smelly, treacherous and criminal hound with 24 hour close protection, I think I can be forgiven for concluding initially that it may be a programme about the charmed lives of dogs, something that might have been described by someone with less taste than I as “wagging tales”. I have reason to believe it was not. In fact I am certain it involved stories of a very different nature which are sometimes supposedly acted out at nearby Houghton View.

At least I am fairly sure it was not, but becoming over excited and paying rather too much attention to a nice red Barossa which we have found in Waitrose, caused me to become tired and emotional before the appointed broadcast time. One could say I peaked too early, if the practice involved on the TV involves peeking. No matter, this piece of TV titillation will probably still be on the hard (!) drive ready for this alcohol free, 600 calorie, evening. Yes, another diet day had begun, and in an increasingly desperate attempt to reduce weight, I am also going for a haircut this afternoon. Next stop, clipping toenails to get those evil bathroom scales to start saying the right things. Actually, given our problems with technology, perhaps I could claim they are faulty?

Chris France
@Valbonne_News