Heat of the moment

Friday night, and C and I are in our usual positions. In ourkitchen, side by side, in front of the boiler. Yes, the boiler.There's no popcorn or comfy seats, no tubs of Luca's ice-cream, andcertainly no interval. And yet we remain transfixed. This bulky boxin the corner of our flat, home of taps, wires, pipes, gas, fire,brimstone and no doubt Oompa Loompas draping petrol-soaked rags overeverything, has taken over our lives.

I haven't had an official diagnosis but I've checked it out onthe internet, tweeted fellow sufferers, and I believe the medicalterm for my condition is Boiler Obsession. There are several signs.First, an incapacity to separate one's boiler from one's self. As inwhen someone asks how you are, instead of saying: "Fine thanks, andyou?" you say: "The boiler's not spewing water this week but I thinkit may be trying to gas me to death. It also makes a funny noisearound 6pm, since you asked." (You may start to lose friends at thisstage of the disease).

I suspected the presence of this symptom when I sent a group e-mail to friends and colleagues with the subject line: "Boilerupdate." Incidentally, I have yet to receive a reply.

Second, an inability to make any plans without consulting theboiler manual (holidays, for example, are a no-no unless you can getsomeone to sit with it). Third, a nagging fear that only dissipateswhen you get beyond a 50-mile radius from home. Fourth, an inabilityto turn on the heating/run a bath/go to sleep/wake up/breathewithout, yep, checking the boiler.

My BO (unfortunate acronym, I know) dates back to one sunnySaturday morning in 2008 when our last boiler spewed a jet of mainswater into my chest with such force that if I'd been a cartooncharacter I'd have bounced on it for hours. Ever since, I've livedin fear of its awesome power.

Last week, my BO resurfaced. C and I had been feeling ill forweeks with viruses, flu, food poisoning, the lot. C went to London(I stayed home with the boiler) and felt fine, came back and feltlike death, erm, warmed up. Seeing that Charlotte Church and herchildren had nearly been poisoned by a gas leak from their boiler -and everyone knows that what happens to C-list celebs can happen tothe rest of us - we gave in and accepted that it really was tryingto kill us.

And so it came to pass. "Yep, it's really spewing out of here,"confirmed the engineer, gazing at the boiler as so many before himhave done. "I knew it!" I gasped. "I've been waiting for thismoment." He sealed everything and the next day we got it servicedand a carbon monoxide detector fitted. Now it's time to move on,maybe even go out when spring comes.

We still don't really know what it was: gas, carbon monoxide,Oompa Loompa farts. But afterwards I decided to calm down with a hotsoak. I started running the water, poured in the relax-or-your-money-back salts, and just as my foot was hovering over the bathtub,I heard C shouting from the look-out post in the kitchen: "Boiler!Water gushing out! Quickly!" And if you want the next instalment, e-mail me and I'll add you to my boiler update list.