Monday, Veterans Day (Obs), John the Plumber Guy turned out to fix my furnace, as he does about two years in every three.
Mrs Stevie had activated the upstairs heating without telling me. I rarely go upstairs any more as the sight of the junk piled in the Stevieling's bedroom makes me come over all funny and ragey, but I had cause that day and found the place hovering at a brisk 56 degrees Fahrenheit. The thermostat was set for 70, presumably waiting for me to turn it to 68.
Heaving a sigh I went down into the basement and did some basic troubleshooting. The downstairs heat was on and working, so the usual thermocouple fail was not in progress. I touched the feed pipes and the one for the upstairs circuit was stone cold. The motor-valve for the upstairs circuit was very hot indeed though. Clearly the motor had siezed and was in the process of bursting into flames, so I went upstairs and turned the heat off again and called John the Plumber Guy.
Over the course of the next hour or so the motor cooled down, confirming my diagnosis1 so I wasted the rest of my Sunday in pointless regret, howls of despair and pitiful cries of "why me?" and let Monday roll on.
John the Plumber Guy arrived on-time with a big smile on his face and his son in tow. Between them the wrestled with my furnace in a World Gone Mad for two hours, fixing the valve, changing the thermocouple2 and finding the Big Time-Wasting Problem™ that was lurking inside the Easy Job™3 and is the main reason I won't touch even simple furnace work with a barge-pole4.
I paid off John & Son, indicating my gratitude by the traditional manly wails, howling and gnashing of teeth as my checkbook caught fire, and that was Monday.
Tuesday was the first workday of the week, and was begun in fine style by my stepping out into the freezing rain that had decided to greet me, only to realize just as the front door clicked shut that I had left my keys inside the house. I shouted out some Class Three Words of Power but the door was latched tight. Naturally. On any other day the bloody thing would have to be pulled tightly into place for the latch to catch, but this day, perfect lock action. Gah.
She hoved into view about twenty minutes later and let me back into the house so she could get the proper accoustics for the frank exchange of views this dimwit act deserved. In some time at all I was on my way to my morning commute, an hour late and soaking wet.
The Bloody Long Island Railroad was, despite now being fitted with the magic Double Tracks at Wyandanch which would Cure All Delays, delayed because of some electrical problem in Penn Station. In fact, since installing the double tracks a month ago there hasn't been a trouble-free commute once. It seems that despite all reason to the contrary, the real problems with trains originate at the West End of the network. Coo! Who could have predicted that?
- This motor valve is fbleeped to a fare-thee-well↑
- A pre-emptive strike I asked them to do↑
- "Yer pipes are all clogged with rust, but we'll sort it out for ya by substantially dismantling the Moustrap Game™ pipework and cleaning it out".↑
- That, and the fact that I do not own a barge-pole↑
- The story of what happened to the old Steviemobile eventuating in the need for the new Steviemobile has yet to be told, but still brings me out in snarls of rage and so will have to wait to see the light of day in these pages↑
- The new Steviemobile has a keyless start fob thingy, but it was annoyingly on my keyring in the house. At least I can confirm that the doors won't release to some stranger because the fob is in close enough proximity in the house to release the security locks.↑