Panic, Post boxes and Re-adjusting my life

The long-suffering wife's hands and feet were itching yesterday. Big time. In an attempt to keep everything in the highest level of panic possible we refered to the medical books and diagnosed obstetric cholostatis, and the need for an induction. This resulted in a rush to hospital for a blood test, the result of which arrived a very leisurely 8 hours later. Hospitals are among the dullest places in the world. Blood tests seem okay; panic over.

With time to kill the wife dropped the bomb shell. She doesn’t want me to talk about post-boxes with our baby. Ever. She is somewhat concerned that I will explain why I don’t “do” postboxes and that this will be adopted by our child. Let me explain – first of all post boxes in England are red. They sit on the corner of roads, and are locked. Big red metal locked boxes. Into these boxes, people put cards, letters, cheques, communications, thoughts. Around collection time the metal box is full of thoughts, of half conversations, all just sitting there waiting. I don’t understand how someone can walk past one and not feel a little uneasy. The thought of metal red boxes, safes for people's ideas and hopes and dreams and fears – and gas bills, just sitting around innocently is a very odd thing. I feel a sense of awe to see people just walk past them as if it wasn’t strange. The thought of putting my thoughts in one, even protected by an envelope, of letting it sit there in the jumble of other people's ideas, is just to much for me.

Along with the fast approaching birth of our child is, of course, New Years Eve. More to the point, there is party on, an event, oh what an event, a London bash which makes me want to cry with joy, an invitation to a night of excess. So I think to myself – "why not go, it will be great." Okay I confess I won't be able to take the wife and baby – but I am sure she won't mind me going... and then I pause and I know she will, I know she will mind a lot and with that realisation I am deeply aware that a part of my life has ended as surely as another one is beginning.

Yours as ever

The Broken Man

Gas

It appears that the long suffering wife has done a very good job of entertaining you in my absence. I will come to the details of the weekend soon, I am sure, but I felt today I should concentrate on the all-important topic of gas.

Our Gas Company wants to change our gas meter. It is due for renewel. Whether this is just an age vs safety thing, or they want to meter us in a new way I don’t know. Our current meter seems to do exactly what its meant to. It meters our gas and lets the company provide us with huge bills. This seems to work well. However, if the Gas company wish to change it then that’s fine by us. Its in the porch. They can do so whenever they wish...you would think. They sent us out a letter asking us to arrange a time they could change the meter. "Any time at all" we said. They require us to be in when they do so. They don't need us in so that they can access it, but they would just like us around. They can't say what time of day they will be there, so they want us to be in all day. In anticipation of this great gas meter change.

It should not come as a shock that we have not felt the need to take a day off work to accommodate them. They don’t “do” evenings or weekends. So, now, every few weeks they send us a letter telling us when they will arrive. We ignore it. They arrive, leave a letter saying "we came to change your meter, but as you were not in, we didn’t. Please rebook."

These letters have begun to give a sense of rhythm to our lives. It feels nice to recive non-bill-related post. Sure, they say the same thing every two weeks. Yes, ultimately, the relationship is stuck in a rut. Yet despite all this, I feel it’s a relationship that I know where I am with. I would actually feel very sad if they did give in and come by one evening. It would change the relationship. I think we have a good thing going now. I am actually becoming attached to the gas meter. I didn’t care about it before. But now I am starting to get attached, starting to think, "well, I like this meter, it's never done me any harm...I don’t think it should be just discarded; cast aside on the scrapheap of used meters." No, this gas meter has become part of the family. I should defend it's right to service; I should keep it. Refuse to let the barbarians take it away.

Then I remember it’s a gas meter, and remind myself I don’t care.

Your as ever,

The broken man