On the boil

(Note: it has been drawn to my attention that some people don't click the music link. This is all right, it is a free country and maybe it is just an indulgence on my part to spend hours scouring YouTube for apposite songs. For those of you who have not tried it, go on and see if you can figure out the connection to the blog entry. And Ingrid, this one is especially for you.)

It’s been a weekend of working on the house, and yes there are still things to do. It appears to be turning into our very own Sagrada Família only without the reptilian whimsies – well, so far at least, but watch this space.

Stephen has been touching up the painting – going over the walls in white where he’s smudged the black when painting the door frames and going over the new skirting board in black where he’s had to make good what, I am sorry to say, was a bit of an amateurish job by Franco. We’ve sorted through rubbish and tried to make some sort of order of it for recycling and taking to the tip and covered all our fabulously polished floors with deconstructed cardboard boxes to protect them from the imminent (we hope) fitting of the new windows and doors.

There was, however, much time wasted this afternoon when, instruction manual in hand, I switched on the boiler and began programming it for heating and water. Things were going reasonably till I lost the home screen and it started flashing FAIL. Well, I thought, I’ve heard of smart intelligence but what have we come to when a thermostat starts grading your programming skills. A quick check of the boiler, however, cleared me of all responsibility as its display showed Fail 108 – which, on consulting the installation manual, translated as: ‘low pressure; refill’.

Now, given that this boiler is supposed to be state of the art, it should have been relatively easy to find the valve, give it a twist and let some more water in. Not so. It is my belief from this afternoon’s palaver that these manuals include totally unhelpful diagrams that bear little resemblance to how the device actually looks so you have to spend masses of money calling in an ‘expert’.

Unable to find a valve underneath the boiler we thought maybe you need to take the cover off. This again was far from an easy task as, when the friendly and efficient fitters from IKEA installed the kitchen they didn’t cut quite enough out of the top of the cupboard housing the boiler to actually lift the cover upwards and disengage it. Undaunted, Stephen did what a man’s gotta do: he went for his drill. Standing on the ladders, he made a serious of holes in what remained of the front part of the top of the cupboard to be able remove enough of whatever its made so that the boiler cover could be removed.

And guess what? Yes, there was no valve. Resorting to the diagram again and turning it several times while contorting myself under the boiler I managed to spot the elusive item, a small, flat, blue valve nestled inside the pipe work. Well, why hadn’t we seen that before? With relief and a considerable amount of effort way out of proportion to its size we managed to open it and watched as the needle on the pressure gauge rose… and then watched fell and stayed stubbornly at 0. Why no pressure now? I discovered the answer when I went to check the rooms and got an earful of water from a jet spurting out of the top of the dressing room radiator. Someone had left its release valve open.

We closed it, we watched the pressure rise, we watched as it maintained a reading of 1.5, we cheered and opened a bottle of champagne – well, maybe not the latter – and then fell to Earth heavily when we were unable to get any hot water. Enough was enough; we admitted defeat, threw in the towel (quite a damp one on my part) and decided we’d have to get Andrea the wonder plumber in to sort us out. The boiler may be the bees’ knees; the thermostat may be state of the art; modern technology may be wonderful but don’t you sometimes just want an on/off switch that actually works?

The weekend, however, has not been all work and disappointment. Last night we had the usual date night at The McIntosh, which was notable for two things: not only did they have chingiale again but Computer Luca joined us, which was most enjoyable. Then tonight we have been to Marzia’s 6th birthday party – or rather the second sitting of it as the first featuring games, music and face painting was reserved for her friends. We may not have had all those things but we did have penne with tomatoes and pancetta (not salmon as Romolo thought), several varieties of pizza and an even more curmudgeonly Remo than usual, disgruntled not only at having to go out and be sociable but then having to wait for his food as well.

As for the birthday girl, she had a wonderful evening as proved by her shining brown eyes – which, we are pleased to say, shone even more when she opened our present. What do you get for a six year old, we wondered. Easy, we buy what made Stephen gasp with wonder and longing when he spotted it in the shop: a large pink and violet My Little Pony with cascading hair, it’s own comb and accessories and a heart shaped button that makes diamond patterns sparkle on its flank and the pony talk. ‘Tanto bellissimo’* said Marzia; if only we could have said the same about the boiler.

*Absolutely fabulously wonderfully the best thing ever.