The Good Old Days
by Alasdair McPherson
Genre: Humour
Swearwords: None.
Description: A broken central heating system leads to a trip down memory lane.
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I had a taste of the good old days last weekend. You know the times I am talking about, when you got a pint of beer, a meat pie and change from a pound note; the days when Christmas excitement began with the opening of the first door on your Advent calendar; summers of endless cloudless days and frosty winters of crisp dazzlingly white snow. Children were polite, probably from the frequent application of corporal punishment, often to the head.
No one wore hoodies, although balaclavas were popular – at least with parents. They were not such a threat, however, because they were all hand-knitted and you could tell who was wearing it from the distinctive pattern of dropped stitches favoured by Mum or Gran. The ones that survived manufacture without blemish were, of course, reserved for the Church Sale of Work.
Great times for beer, bonnie bairns and bonspiels but the good old days, and no one seems to remember this, were also memorable for having just one room in the house that was tolerably warm while the rest was like being in an industrial deep-freeze. My central heating broke down on Friday and I could not get it fixed until Monday morning.
Even if I say it myself, I adapted fairly well to the emergency. Of course, it helps when you are flirting with senility and find it easier to remember what you did fifty years ago than what you had for breakfast. Actually, that is hyperbole. I know perfectly well that I had two Weetabix this morning, because I have two Weetabix every morning but that rather begs the question: would I remember what I ate for breakfast this morning if I had something different every day?
One room well heated is all you really need to survive, I discovered, but if another breakdown occurs I am going to have to renegotiate with the dog. He sits right in front of the electric fire and laps up the hot air, presumably to get as warm inside as out. I am left with whatever heat can sneak past him and isn’t swallowed.
Getting into bed needed some thought but it turned out to be a dawdle for an old campaigner, like me. First, I took a deep breath and held it. In this condition I removed my trousers and dived under the duvet with the rest of my clothes firmly clutched about my person. The deep breath is an unsubstantiated theory of mine for combating extreme cold. It would pay some enterprising student to pick up on it: I’ll bet there is a PhD thesis in there somewhere. If it proves correct it might give rise to some uncertainty; for instance, an old person, suffering from cold, who takes a deep breath and holds it could probably not be presumed dead until the weather got warmer.
Once under the covers I have the luxury of choice. I can take off my woolly jumper next or leave it on while I deal with my socks instead. The only tricky bit comes at that stage: I have to perform a prodigious athletic feat to put on my pyjama trousers without allowing any cold air to seep under the covers. By this point I am so exhausted that I give up and sleep in my t-shirt.
My mate was brought up in Bavaria and at about fifteen he developed one of these fitness fanaticisms that are almost as common as plukes in adolescent boys. Summer or winter, he slept with his bedroom window open; he would wake up on a December morning with his breath frozen on his pillow. I only managed a bit of a damp patch on mine and I cannot even be sure that it wasn’t drool.
Stuck in one room for three days, I had plenty time for contemplation and that enabled me to solve a mystery that has bothered thinking men and women for many years. Constipation used to be a major problem and I, not being an especially thinking man, had ascribed its eradication to advances in medical care: not so! The truth is that it needs considerable raw courage to drop your kegs and place your delicate bottom on an icy block of plastic while you wait, shivering, for nature to favour you with a wee jobby. Take my word for it; if you can clench your cheeks and keep it up there you will do so! Even that is better, I think, than to be like the wimp in my class at school whose Mummy used to pour a kettle of boiling water into the pan to ease his passage.
Swearwords: None.
Description: A broken central heating system leads to a trip down memory lane.
_____________________________________________________________________
I had a taste of the good old days last weekend. You know the times I am talking about, when you got a pint of beer, a meat pie and change from a pound note; the days when Christmas excitement began with the opening of the first door on your Advent calendar; summers of endless cloudless days and frosty winters of crisp dazzlingly white snow. Children were polite, probably from the frequent application of corporal punishment, often to the head.
No one wore hoodies, although balaclavas were popular – at least with parents. They were not such a threat, however, because they were all hand-knitted and you could tell who was wearing it from the distinctive pattern of dropped stitches favoured by Mum or Gran. The ones that survived manufacture without blemish were, of course, reserved for the Church Sale of Work.
Great times for beer, bonnie bairns and bonspiels but the good old days, and no one seems to remember this, were also memorable for having just one room in the house that was tolerably warm while the rest was like being in an industrial deep-freeze. My central heating broke down on Friday and I could not get it fixed until Monday morning.
Even if I say it myself, I adapted fairly well to the emergency. Of course, it helps when you are flirting with senility and find it easier to remember what you did fifty years ago than what you had for breakfast. Actually, that is hyperbole. I know perfectly well that I had two Weetabix this morning, because I have two Weetabix every morning but that rather begs the question: would I remember what I ate for breakfast this morning if I had something different every day?
One room well heated is all you really need to survive, I discovered, but if another breakdown occurs I am going to have to renegotiate with the dog. He sits right in front of the electric fire and laps up the hot air, presumably to get as warm inside as out. I am left with whatever heat can sneak past him and isn’t swallowed.
Getting into bed needed some thought but it turned out to be a dawdle for an old campaigner, like me. First, I took a deep breath and held it. In this condition I removed my trousers and dived under the duvet with the rest of my clothes firmly clutched about my person. The deep breath is an unsubstantiated theory of mine for combating extreme cold. It would pay some enterprising student to pick up on it: I’ll bet there is a PhD thesis in there somewhere. If it proves correct it might give rise to some uncertainty; for instance, an old person, suffering from cold, who takes a deep breath and holds it could probably not be presumed dead until the weather got warmer.
Once under the covers I have the luxury of choice. I can take off my woolly jumper next or leave it on while I deal with my socks instead. The only tricky bit comes at that stage: I have to perform a prodigious athletic feat to put on my pyjama trousers without allowing any cold air to seep under the covers. By this point I am so exhausted that I give up and sleep in my t-shirt.
My mate was brought up in Bavaria and at about fifteen he developed one of these fitness fanaticisms that are almost as common as plukes in adolescent boys. Summer or winter, he slept with his bedroom window open; he would wake up on a December morning with his breath frozen on his pillow. I only managed a bit of a damp patch on mine and I cannot even be sure that it wasn’t drool.
Stuck in one room for three days, I had plenty time for contemplation and that enabled me to solve a mystery that has bothered thinking men and women for many years. Constipation used to be a major problem and I, not being an especially thinking man, had ascribed its eradication to advances in medical care: not so! The truth is that it needs considerable raw courage to drop your kegs and place your delicate bottom on an icy block of plastic while you wait, shivering, for nature to favour you with a wee jobby. Take my word for it; if you can clench your cheeks and keep it up there you will do so! Even that is better, I think, than to be like the wimp in my class at school whose Mummy used to pour a kettle of boiling water into the pan to ease his passage.
About the Author
Originally from Dalmuir, Alasdair McPherson is now retired and living in exile in Lincolnshire.
He says he has always wanted to write, but life got in the way until recently. He has already penned two novels and is now trying his hand at short stories.
He says he has always wanted to write, but life got in the way until recently. He has already penned two novels and is now trying his hand at short stories.