Now we know how every athlete feels when sitting in gold medal spot. Effort completed, but still one or two competitors waiting in the wings, eager to do their very best to snatch that illustrious prize from your grasp.
Morning arrives. I’m optimistic that it’s a simple problem. Something overlooked in the daze of last evening’s bewilderment. Only one glass of wine not to blame. Mary-Ann is less hopeful. I can always tell. Her eyebrows go all French. Right one adopting an acute angle complementing the left’s grave slant. Brow furrowed as neatly as a French farmer’s muddy rows.
I can even see thought bubbles bobbing above her head, comic style, but this is no laughing matter. “I wonder if he really did fill that tank up?” and “If we can’t find the problem, then there’s no way we’re going across!!”
No doubt she can see mine. “I just don’t get it. I know I filled that tank to the brim” and “In any case, if we don’t solve it now, we’ll find someone in France that can. Lot’s of camping cars over there. No big deal!” and “Whatever, we must make sure we don’t miss our crossing”. Get the picture? Not quite sunrise at the not so OK Corral, but getting there.
Beastie is glugging at the gills. If we could have stuffed one more cc of H2O down his gullet we would have.
“Give it another try – any good?” – “No, Just the same. And now the pump keeps pumping even when I turn the tap off.”
It’s 9.15am and I scratch my head for the ninety-ninth time (no I’m not a savant). Take a look at the back of Beastie to discover a trail of water. Look underneath Beastie’s garage where the heating system is housed and discover a clear plastic penile overflow extension dangling down. It looks like it’s taking a never ending pee.
At that moment an angel appears (actually, a curious MOHO man) He suggests I check to see if the frost safety valve is closed! “The what!?” Seems that when the temperature drops below a certain mark this clever little valve automatically opens and drains the system. Problem is, it’s not clever enough to close itself.
Torch in mouth, I half clamber into the rear garage. It’s chocabloc with stuff that I don’t want to have to remove. I squeeze into position and lean over into Beastie’s boiler room. Arms dangling forwards with hands fumbling around in the dark. Feeling for something that needs to be turned or pushed back in. Backside exposed to the elements, but not emulating the pose of your average builder’s bottom. (i.e. no cleavage on show)
Still TBC . . .