'Twas on a Monday Morning...

... the Gas Man came to call', goes the Flanders & Swann song, The Gas Man Commeth, that we used to listen to on holiday, when it was too wet to picnic on the beach and too windy to sail. A song of unending domestic upheaval; I think I could probably write an updated version detailing the saga of living in our flat. Men are supposed to be coming to patch up the hole (in the ceiling). That's right. Patch up the hole. Not replace the ceiling, as the builders suggested. Still, that’s landlords for you. I have no further details, except that it's supposed to be this week. It only happened three weeks ago, so I suppose no desperate rush.

Some other men are supposed to be delivering our new fridge freezer on Wednesday. Sometime between 8am and 8pm. Which means a day off. But no, they call the night before and give you a 4-hour time slot. How convenient, not knowing until the evening before. So, a half-day then? But no, they will call you at the start of said four-hour time slot and tell you which hour. So Madam, you can just leave work for that hour. Assuming that it's convenient that you can leave work at no notice for 'an hour', which will probably be more like two or three, and that you work and live in the same street. Most people don't work and live in the same postcode in London. Sainsbury's obviously believe in putting the delivery people first, not the customer.

So, bets to be placed on whether either happens as planned this week; I wonder what the odds are for both on the Wednesday? But I'm sure it won't be as easy as that. As I said, unending domestic upheaval.