An exciting development has occurred here at The Funny Little Bungalow. Not the whole MOVING IN thing – that’s old news. But we finally have achieved Big Seymour’s dream, by getting solar tubes installed on the roof.
By God! They’re ugly.
The top deck (where I had hoped to sunbathe naked) is now home to an erection the likes of which I do not understand, but will, apparently, turn us green.
Our thermal store, aka Sputnik, now has a whole new circulation system, involving water, heated by the sun, and I have never seen my husband so excited. There are constant reports from the cupboard about tank temperature and, despite my having a Science degree, I cannot find it in my soul to learn how it all works as yet.
Our foray into renewable energy systems has not been straightforward. Simply finding a company willing to do the work proved tricky. But eventually, a nice German man called Helmut was discovered, and he seemed to know what he was talking about.
The only problem, though, was the fact that he was called Helmut.
Big Seymour is a “say as you hear” kind of chap. He doesn’t think about the origins of a name, and perhaps that it is not from round these parts. He won’t stop to consider the spelling of any word, let alone one that he will never need to write. So Helmut soon was introduced to me as Helmet, and then referred to as Hermit, and on occasion, even Kermit. Hamilton featured, too, though I am not really sure where that came from.
It was painful.
Dear Helmut, though, didn’t seem to mind. He cheerily carried on with his work, and entertained Boy Seymour by educating him about the ways of the solar stuff. And I am proud to report that after a few tries and embarrassed corrections from myself, Boy Seymour even got Helmut’s name right!
Mini Seymour, however, is having trouble with Sputnik. Sputnik (and the large cupboard in which he lives) is now even more important than ever, as he now accepts input from the sun, and will hopefully save us loads of money. But Mini (not really understanding the reference to Sputnik’s double – a space shuttle), instead hears Patrick. To her, our thermal store is called Patrick, and that’s that.
Where is your school bag? I asked her.
“In Patrick’s bedroom”, she replied.
And sure enough, there it was, nestled at the base of the enormous tank, in amongst the school shoes and the ironing board.
Patrick or Sputnik?
Helmut or Helmet?
Like father, like daughter.
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