Old bones need warm radiators

After six years in the USA, returning in 1972, we were ill-prepared for a Britain which still lacked central heating. Desperately poor we somehow scraped up the money to have it installed in our tiny house (“suitable for an urban peasant”).

Heating technology had progressed which was just as well. The heater in Pittsburgh resembled a phone box whereas the Kingston-upon-Thames unit was the size of two large suitcases. In Pittburgh the furnace roared on through the night and, given those winter temperatures, we wouldn’t have had it any other way. In Kingston a timer switched things off at 10.30 pm, encouraging an interest in thermal blankets.

The new furnace (actually now 10 years old) here in Hereford is smaller still and is tucked away in the garage. It heats the detached four-bedroom house with ease and has only put up one black so far when the feeder to the pilot light became blocked. It took the plumber some time to remedy this as I furiously enquired how much an electronically fired furnace would cost. Pilot lights seemed so passé. When all was well the plumber cautioned patience and the furnace has worked perfectly for the ensuing four years.