The Frozen North

The dear little boiler was coughing last night like something out of the last act of La Bohème. Then it died. Now, of course it is our tiny hands which are frozen, not to mention our tiny feet & other parts. Pathetic telephonic representations were made to Keith the Plumber; who alas was presumably busy; ’tis the season for heating systems to get into the spirit of things, of course. I cannot be the only person who has observed that if your boiler or other necessary device has it in mind to go wrong it will do so in the depths of a public holiday. Ditto animals having accidents. It is all exceedingly annoying and we have wrapped the Tropical Godfather up in cashmere, as if he were a species of phalenopsis orchid. We are happy to report that unlike the phalenopses, none of his extremities have as yet gone black and dropped off. We have bought a bag of coal, and intend to spend the evening by a roaring fire in the sitting room, which is not so bad. Does anybody out there know who the patron saint of plumbing is?

5 Responses to “The Frozen North”

  1. jan foster Says:

    Let’s see: for artillery it’s St Barbara. I don’t suppose that is either help or comfort, unless the chimney gets stopped up.

  2. Jon Says:

    Perhaps you should try the traditional method that didn’t work for the phalenopses but may for you: the local whisky.

  3. fjs Says:

    I seem to recall this question arising before, all google paths lead to the deep north…

    Maybe this would be a propicious moment to identify and celebrate a suitable saint; St Michael is the P St. of the worshipful company of plumbers, but maybe as he now has a flourishing underwear business it is time for another to step into the breach(es).

    In the mean time, whisky, fires and wild wild women would be my best offer.

  4. Aoife Says: suggests St Vincent Ferrer…

  5. site admin Says:

    One would be so much happier had he been St Vincent Plumbea, but you may be right.

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