The gas leak emergency continued in a baffling way, with two more men coming to the house in turn, each with a different opinion from the first and each other. Pretty much all of them passing the buck to someone else. Which is always what you want when it comes to something unimportant like gas.
The man from the boiler company immediately poo-pooed the idea that there was anything wrong with the boiler, even before he'd really looked at it. His opinion was that there wasn't enough gas coming into the boiler to make it work and he guessed that either the pipes were too thin or that there was an issue with the supply from the street. In any case he called the National Grid people back in, serviced the boiler anyway (so I'd paid for that for no reason) and went on his merry way. Apparently too little gas would ironically account for the leak as the boiler would spew it out if there wasn't enough for it to use. He explained it all in that weary way that people who know about stuff tend to do, because clearly if he knew about it then everyone else should as well. I hadn't warmed to him immediately, after he'd made me move my car so he could park his car outside my house and then asked if my boiler had been installed by non-British workmen. But after an hour in his company I quite liked him anyway. He was sardonic, but seemed to know what he was talking about. Even though I wasn't entirely sure what he was talking about. He left safe in the knowledge that he was in the clear. I didn't know at this stage whether the kitchen would have to be torn down to accommodate bigger pipes.
The man from the National Grid (a different one than the other day), adjusted something on the gas meter which meant more gas should flow into the property and he was confident that the new readings would mean that we wouldn't be gassing our next door neighbours and the pipes should be big enough to cope with full gas usage. It seemed a bit vague and hopeful to me and I didn't feel like we'd really established what the problem in the week had been. But he felt sure we were OK and probably wouldn't have to replace the pipes. With just enough uncertainty to ensure that I can never sleep soundly in my house again!
I am joking. I am pretty sure we're all OK. Though not that much seems to be different than this time last week, except that the boiler people have a hundred of my pounds.
I drove to Aylesbury, listening to a Radio 4 programme about the Great Train Robbery. As I arrived in town I was told that Aylesbury was where the court case had taken place where many of the robbers were sentenced to a massive thirty years in prison (in the days before parole). Nice of the BBC to arrange this for me just as I was driving into town.
In the theatre dressing room there was a Chinese takeaway on the table, with some fortune cookies scattered around. Nervous about the gig I took one to see if it could offer me any advice. The note said, "You have the gift of the gab". Which was about the best fortune that I could have had at this moment as I prepared to perform a show that is only 70% written. It turned out to be a good call from the cookie. The show edges ever closer to being ready. There are bits that I haven't had time to even put in yet. I want to try and take on Hamlet's famous soliloquy and answer his existential questions (I don't think he's as clever as everyone seems to think), but haven't had the courage to make this bold claim in my wank-obsessed show just yet. And there may not be time as even with a couple of routines dropped I am already coming in at over 65 minutes.
Maybe I am nearly there. Maybe I haven't really started yet. But in two weeks time I will have left London and be gigging my way through the north of England before arriving in Edinburgh on the 29th.
For some reason I am relishing this stupidly short time-frame. For some reason I am really looking forward to the Fringe. You know my middle-name is hubris, but for some reason I have a good feeling about all this. Maybe it's just the fortune cookie.
