The day began so well. Got an enormously long email from the government, so kind, from that very sincere Matt Hancock in his Burton’s suit, head prefect at the Dept of Health. I was not going to read it properly, Matt has rather overwhelmed me with his epistles, then I saw the word FREE.
It said that if I answered all their questions, proving that I am in the “clinically extremely vulnerable” group, I will from January get a free supply of Vitamin D. Wow.
Don’t ask me why I should need it, but come on, anything FREE and I’m at the head of queue. I am even willing to fill in boring forms online, which I hate doing.
I wondered how I might have to prove that I am vulnerable? Does the fact that I cry if Spurs get beaten show how vulnerable I can be?
I answered their questions and pinged it off, crossing my fingers, hoping I might be one of the chosen ones.
It isn’t really often in old age that you are sitting waiting to be chosen. Oh God, the excitement when at 16 I heard I was being transferred from my sec mod to the sixth form at Carlisle Grammar School. I was being allowed to join the Brain Boxes. Rapture. Then at 22 when I heard from Kemsley Newspapers (later Thomson newspapers, later News International, do keep up, they still own this newspaper) that I had been chosen to be one of their graduate trainee journalists. Such joy.
Last month I was chosen as one of the first to get the vaccine. I get the second jab, which still appears to be going ahead, on my 85th birthday, January 7. No presents please — you can’t afford them.
Being chosen to receive a four-month free supply of Vitamin D tablets seemed an excuse for celebrations, so I invited my young girlfriend, aged 72, to come for supper. I lit my log fire, turned on the plastic candles, only £1 each from Poundland, then unwrapped the smoked salmon, carefully hiding the fact that it should have been eaten three months ago. I was getting ready to ask her if she was getting Free Vitamin D, ah ha, ha ha ha.
I decided to go upstairs to check the bedroom. Oh bloody hell, there was hot water spurting out all over the floor. The radiator under the window had come off the wall, fallen flat on the carpet, a pipe had cracked and the carpet was already soaked. I do have full cover for all such emergencies from British Gas, all it costs is a fortune, currently £610 a year. I could buy a car for that.
I rushed to find its phone number and my policy. Could I get a human being to talk to? Could I heckers. It was Saturday evening in lockdown. Yes I know all the rules, but she is in my bubble, oh yes.
I found an emergency number for when you smell leaking gas, but not for leaking hot water. All I could get was a repeated recorded message, crap music and endless recorded warnings about Covid, as if I hadn’t heard about it.
Eventually one recorded message did allow me to chose a time for an emergency engineer to come. The earliest turned out to be the next day, 20 hours ahead. I could be drowned by then, the house collapsed.
After an hour shouting and screaming into my mobile, while mopping up the water, I found an emergency plumber who came in 25 mins. He charged me £120 for the callout and another £120 for his time, which came to ten minutes. But he did isolate the radiator and make it safe. I could have done that myself, 40 years ago. Today my poor old fingers are so stiff I can’t even open an envelope.
I paid the emergency plumber, still moaning about the cost. He said don’t worry. As I have full cover with British Gas, he was sure they would reimburse me. Oh yeah, I said. I can’t even find a human to talk to.
The British Gas engineer did come on the Sunday, took the radiator off, but then said sorry, there would be a wait of two weeks for a new radiator. Oh God. I will freeze by then. On Monday I eventually found an email address for British Gas Customer Relations. Sorry, I can’t share it, too precious, do your own rotten work.
I sent them a long abusive email about how they left an elderly pensioner living on his own to get boiled alive. I would have been drowned and the whole house ruined. The rebuilding cost could have been half a million. I just made that up. But I did attach the receipt for the £240 I paid because they would not turn up. And waited and waited.
Guess what — after only four days I got an apology from them. And my £240 back. Even more amazing, I got £150 as compensation.
Now, after the two weeks wait, the new radiator is in place. What a lucky boy am I. And Claire survived. The long out of date smoked salmon did not finish her off.
At every age and stage in life, all householders have to cope with unexpected domestic dramas, which always seem to happen at an inconvenient time, such as a weekend during lockdown. Having full insurance does not always guarantee instant help.
The trouble with age is that you need mental and physical energy to think clearly — not to collapse and burst into tears and go to bed when something awful happens.
So well done in the end British Gas. And thanks a lot Matt for giving me four months’ supply of Vitamin D tablet. That should keep me alive a bit longer, fit enough to fight against the next damn thing.