As my last two posts were text-only, I thought you might like a few photos even though they are of scenes I’ve already shown you.

As has become a habit on Fridays, we met at the bus stop in St John Street, when Tigger returned from work, in order to go to the Banana Tree for supper.

No 1 High Steet

On my way there I photographed this famous and handsome building from a slightly unfamiliar angle. Notice the green plant that has taken root on the dome, showing how tenacious life can be even in unpromising environments.

Two in hand

This cyclist was riding one bicycle while towing another. It doesn’t look a very safe way to go on.

The Banana Tree

The Banana Tree restaurant was in the shade and as it is painted in dark colours does not show up very well. We have been here so often now and always have the same food so that they know what we want without us having to ask!

Inside the Banana Tree

As it was still quite early, there were very few customers in the restaurant, which was fine by me.

The Angel crossroads

I took this last photo as we passed through the Angel crossroads on the way home. Five roads meet here, all of them major thoroughfares, and so the junction is always busy.

Troubles, according to the proverb, never come singly, and today illustrates the point. As she left for work this morning, Tigger casually mentioned that the hot water wasn’t working – again. This is the third time it has happened. Out of the blue, the hot water refuses to work and then, just as suddenly, starts working again. On the other two occasions, it happened on Sunday and came back on just before I could call the Council’s repairs team on Monday morning. This time, I can call the Council while it’s still not working.

I had to wait until the scaffolders arrived (so that I could let them in) before involving myself in a phone call to the Council. Happily, the scaffolders arrived at about 8:15 and I was able to call the Council when the repairs office opened at 8:30. Here, I had another stroke of luck: they can send me a gas engineer this very afternoon!

This morning, then, not having hot water on tap, I had to boil water in a kettle to wash myself and then wash the dishes. Though annoying, this is not a major inconvenience. It carried me back, in memory, to my childhood. In those far-off days, hot water on tap was a luxury that only the wealthy could afford and we were definitely not wealthy. All of our hot water, with one exception, was heated in kettles and saucepans. This included washing oneself, washing the dishes and indeed anything else requiring a modicum of hot water.

The exception was water for taking a bath. Our house contained a small bathroom, created, long after the house had been built without such a facility, by stealing space from existing rooms and the upper landing. My earliest recollections include an ancient gas geyser perched over the bath. To use this, you turned on the water, to obtain gas pressure, and lit the gas burner underneath. (There was no pilot light or, if there was, it never functioned.) The heat from the burning gas heated the thin stream of water emanating from the geyser.

When this aged apparatus eventually gave up the ghost, the local plumber cum odd-jobs man replaced it with a contraption of his own devising. He built a shelf over the bath and placed upon it a large urn with a tap. Above this, he placed a tap connected to the water main and, underneath it, a gas ring. To take a bath, you filled the urn from the tap and lit the gas ring. You then went away to do something else while the water was slowly heating up.

This system worked perfectly well, of course, but in retrospect I think we were lucky that the whole caboodle never collapsed on someone in the bath.

When I first came here to live with Tigger, we had a gas fire for heating – in one room only – and an electric immersion heater for hot water. When our flat was refurbished in 2008, these two were replaced (with some regret on our part, especially concerning the gas fire which we liked) by a gas boiler providing both hot water and central heating, bringing us into the modern world, so to speak. Modern, yes, but also often faulty. We have had to have many repairs to the boiler, something that never occurred with the immersion heater and gas fire.

The gas engineer, with a female assistant, arrived at 3 pm. The same pair had already visited us on July 5th to do the annual gas check (see Pancakes and coffee). I described the problem and left them to it.

After about 40 minutes, they declared the problem – a blocked water sensor – solved and went on their merry way. If only all of life’s problems admitted of such simple remedies!

By the way, with reference to my previous post, it seems that my “mental” neighbour has been pacified and that the scaffolders will return on Monday to complete their interrupted job.

We live in a house divided into four flats, of which ours is nicely situated on the ground floor. From time to time the Council needs access to the house for repairs and inspections and for this they need the co-operation of an inhabitant.

Somehow, without me quite knowing how, I seem to have become the unofficial concierge of the building, at least, as far as the Council is concerned. So, whenever there’s work to be done, my phone rings and I am asked whether I can be there to receive the people concerned.

This happened early last week when the Council rang to inform me that they needed to install scaffolding at the rear of the building and to ask whether I could provide access for the scaffolders. They proposed Friday, July 9th, and as Tigger was working on that day I was happy to agree. The scaffolders would arrive at some time between 8 am and 12 pm.

Friday duly arrived and Tigger went off to work, leaving me to complete all the usual morning chores before 8 am. I did so and settled down to await the expected ring on the doorbell. For good measure, I hooked back the curtain of the living room window, so that I could keep watch on the road for the arrival of the lorry.

The expected ring on the doorbell never came and no scaffolding lorry ever appeared in the street. I was left waiting, like a jilted bride at the altar.

This was not only annoying but also embarrassing. Taking my concierge’s role seriously, I had drafted a notice and affixed it to the inside of the front door to be seen by our neighbours, informing them of the expected visit by the scaffolders. When this didn’t happen, it made me look silly and I felt duly embarrassed.

Had I perhaps misunderstood the date? I was sure that I had not made a mistake and this was confirmed on Tuesday morning when my phone rang. It was the nice lady from the Council who had called me the week before. The scaffolders, she said, had reported that they had been unable to gain access to the property and had therefore not been able to do the job. I leave you to imagine my reaction to this! I had waited in all day, I said, and kept watch on the street. If they couldn’t gain access it was because they hadn’t come here!

The nice lady asked would I be able to provide access for a return visit and would Friday the 16th be a good day? As Tigger is again working on Friday, it would be a very good day.

Today, then, I went through the familiar routine, finishing off the chores and making myself ready by the time the hands of the clock were creeping towards 8 am. Then I settled down to watch and wait.

At about 8:15, I saw the scaffolders’ lorry draw up outside. They have kept the appointment this time. I went out to meet them and showed them to the back garden which is their field of activity today.

As I write this, I can hear the scaffolders at work in the back garden. Together with the clank of metal stays and the thud of wooden planks, there is the characteristic whirr of electric spanners. Putting up scaffolding that is fit for its purpose and safe for those who stand on it must be an art as well as a science. I have read of accidents where scaffolding has collapsed leading to loss of life.

Later…

All went well until about 10 am when the scaffolders knocked on our door. They were angry and frustrated because they were unable to finish the job. They then gathered up their kit and departed. What had gone wrong?

All had been well, they told me, until they reached the balcony of the top flat which they needed to access to continue the work. At that point, the lady who lives there appeared and, in their words, “went mental, threatening to throw herself off the balcony”. She claimed that no one had informed her, much less asked her permission, to access the balcony and that she would not allow it on pain of self-harm. In the circumstances, the scaffolders could only stop the work.

I phoned the Council and spoke to the nice lady who had arranged the appointments, passing on what the scaffolders had told me. I left the matter in her no doubt capable hands and wait to be contacted about yet another appointment for the scaffolding work to be completed.

It seems that a concierge’s work is never done… 🙂