Dust

So the plumber came today.

Now I don’t know how it is where you live, but here that is the kind of news that  could make the frontpage  of the local rag…
I was so pleased to see him, I nearly kissed him, even though we have had to re-mortgage the house to pay for his visit and bung him more than a fistful of fivers to get him here in the first place.  And all because I couldn’t go on dive bombing into bed in case the bitterly cold air  sand blasted my  fair skin. Thermal nighties are so unbecoming.

So I made him a cup of tea and then I made him another and he hummed and ha-ard and I left him to it and tried not to worry when the boiler started to clank alarmingly. Then I arranged a pretty plate with delicate Ladys Fingers and watched him shove them into his mouth three at a time and scratch his head and then get  on the phone to someone called Jim who apparently told him that the radiator  in the bathroom was  the root of the problem. So he called for a screwdriver and I dismantled  the house in search of one, and then he unscrewed the radiator cabinet and took a sharp intake of breath and I ran in to see what the problem was, to be informed that it was "the worst case he’d ever seen"…

"Ummm, in what way?" I muttered, certain that he was about to blind me with science.
"Dust, love" he said. Grinning.  "Pull these radiators off and this is what you find. Enough dust to stuff a cushion with."

Oh. My. God.

Well now Mr Plumber, I am sure you are mistaken, because I am the Vintage HouseKeeper and I don’t do dust. Oh Lord, I see what you mean.

More dust than you have ever seen. Three inches thick at least. Grey with bad thoughts and mean words we have shoved behind the radiator cabinet .  The dustiest, nastiest dust you have ever seen.  I am ashamed.

Fur coat and no knickers isn’t in it.