Eek. The oil has run out again. And embarrassingly enough, it did so on the same evening Aoife and I managed to seduce the lovely Joanne into coming home with us after drunken shenanigans involving Frenchmen and small shots of something plunged in Red Bull at Pal Joey's in Temple Bar. Ironic. Or Alanis Morissette's version of irony at least. As we sat on stools eating toast in our kitchen (beside a grubby plywood something we have hilariously renamed our 'breakfast bar'), marveling at Aoife's ability to conjugate boire at 4am with the excitable Frenchies, we began to realise the old house was rather chilly. Aoife, in her usual inspired manner chose to kick half-heartedly at the radiators a few times but I, sensing the situation required an informed eye, slipped outside to check the boiler and kick that instead.
'I'm afraid', I announced on my return, 'that the boiler is officially fucked'. Joanne started mumbling something about getting a taxi home, where it was warm and the sofa was not stained with dried-on curry sauce. Sensing a crisis approaching, I came up with the grand idea of starting a fire in the sitting room [In the fireplace, obviously. Our house is not bad enough for arson just yet]. One hour, three dusty brickettes and half a packet of fire lighters later, I sat back proudly to survey the smoking mass of embers before me.
'Just toasty.' Drawled Aoife. 'I don't know why we need central heating at all if you can lay down excellent fires like that all the time.'
So now my house is freezing again. Not as cold as December of course, but all the same, not too pleasant.