LOSING ONE'S BOTTLE
THe small house in Duns has one small deficiency; despite its usual tropical wood stove induced heat it is invariably cold by 5am. Not cold by Town Mouse's high standards. But cold. Huttonian has the answer. Mr Romanes rubber, red, hot water bottle. Fill it with boiling water (contrary to the manufacturer's explicit instructions)and by 5 am it is still piping hot. The wife too has a rubber (NO bad American pun intended) Buff coloured, ridged and less cuddly HWB than the Red Devil. She is of the cautious school of HWB techbology: half fill, do not boil. But her needs differ from mine. Warm the bed to bum glow levels, settle down, turn out the lights snooze and then expel the device before it cools down too much
Monday 5AM. Wake. Cold.search for bottle Find it. Recoil in horror. Corpse like-long dead cadaver to boot. Barely tepid. Inspect by discrete light of pencil torch. Buff, ridged, deceased.Red bottle on wife's side of bed; on floor. Stone cold. Shivering.
Take down to kitchen for refill. Bad start to week.
Wife apologises nicely. Later at Breakfast asks rhetorically what is worse than bombing civilians in Gaza
I tell her.
(Image is of the wife contemplating which hottie francaise to toss out of son lit)
Labels: Hot water bottles crimes against humanity