Foskett's Day (Jan 2004)

Christmas Day, 11.55am
So I said, 'If you were living in your own house, you prat,  instead of a rented one, and you were unbelievably stupid enough to have lost your keys in the course of what sounds like a disgracefully inebriated attendance at midnight mass, there wouldn't be a cheerful and good natured soul like me on hand to sort you out, would there?  So the very least I expect is a grovelling apology for calling me from the bosom of my family on this festal day; and another for saying it would take you fifteen minutes to get to the office and then making me kick my heels for three quarters of a bloody hour!'  The only trouble is, I've been saying all this inside my head, over and over, in various modified versions, while still waiting for that dozy blighter called John Brownjohn (I ask you!) to turn up in the flesh to collect my spare set of keys to 33 Blackstone Hill.

When I look back over Christmases past, at least those since I've been running my own show, they're a pretty mixed bag.  Once or twice the sweet n'sour letter I send to tenants in early December, where seasonal greetings  rub shoulders with stern warnings about how to prevent frozen pipes during holiday absences, has produced exactly the result I'm after: peace on earth and goodwill to all tenants.  Rather too often, however, the invitation to ring my emergency hotline has been accepted, as, for example, by the now seriously late J. Brownjohn, Esq.  You'd think the weather would be the main culprit; but that would be to underestimate the depth of human stupidity.  The snow was not lying deep and crisp and even when dotty Scottish Mrs Dobson left her Christmas pud to steam on all through Boxing Day, while she and her kids were enjoying the mild daylight hours following the local hunt.  They got back to find the pud, and their landlord's recently refurbished kitchen, burnt to a crisp.  My phone was their first recourse, before even the fire brigade's!  Can you believe it, I lent them a gas ring, so they wouldn't have to go without their porridge next morning!

Nor do I see how adverse climatic conditions could explain last year's twin peaks of absurdity. Just as I was locking up the office, at 2.30pm on Christmas Eve (officially we closed at noon, but we always have a glass or two of wine and a couple of mince pies with staff and chosen contractors; and then someone's had to haul up to reception the little fat bowler-hatted red man that passes for a vacuum cleaner so that the flakes of that year's exceedingly flaky pastry could be removed) a breathless voice said 'Oh good, I've caught you.'  I didn't need to turn round to know who had spoken.  On my list of all-time least wanted Christmas surprises, an encounter with Mrs Battersby would come close to the top.  But to my everlasting credit I supressed the instinct to greet her with 'Aha, the ghost of Christmas past!'. She went on, 'I don't know where to look for my stopcock.'  So I had to spend with her the hour I'd intended for last-minute present shopping; which is of course to say, all my present shopping.  I couldn't fault Mrs B for heeding my warnings, before heading off to spend the hols with her loved ones; lucky old them.  But, as I politely said, the position of all domestic fixtures is on her inventory, and having renewed her tenancy yearly since the Boer War ended is hardly an excuse for not having it to hand!

The phone was ringing when I eventually reached home, eager for a quiet evening with my metaphorical pipe and slippers; I haven't smoked the former since my children revolted against it best part of twenty years ago, and I'd binned the latter in the certain knowledge that the annual M & S token would come my way on the morrow from my sole surviving aunt, to a value that used to yield me at least a cardigan but which, if I add a little to it, will nowadays buy me my replacement slippers - it can't be long before a prawn and mayonnaise sandwich will be the best I can look forward to.  Be that as it may, the call was from a tenant, a young divorcée up from London, who'd only moved in the previous afternoon.  I'd given her my home number 'just in case you run into any problems.'  'I've run into a problem,' she said 'or rather, it's run into me.  You know the single bed in the second bedroom?  The one you said would be easy to move because it was on casters?  Well I decided to move it into the box room so I could have a study.  Unfortunately, as I was pulling it along the landing, I stepped back, fell down the stairs and it's run down after me.  Nothing's broken, but I'm now trapped in the hall with the bed wedged fast.  Thank goodness the phone is in the hall.  I hate to ask on Christmas Eve, but I think you said you had a back door key and I wondered if you would rather come and rescue me, or if I should ring the fire brigade and get them to break in?'

Needless to say, I vaulted on to my white horse and was off in a blaze of shining armour.  If it had been Mrs Battersby calling, things might have turned out differently!  Hallo, I think I hear the welcome tones of the lesser spotted Brownjohn outside, calling for my attention.  He's going to get it alright!