How I went from smelling like Treasure Island's Ben Gunn to Jeffrey Archer's wife – Susan Morrison

He came back two days later with a replacement bit, but mysteriously it had been shipped with a tiny part missing. The schematic was wrong. We became very familiar with the word ‘schematic’.

Days passed. On television, weather women waved at maps of Scotland as rainy animations swept over Edinburgh, sometimes giving way to sleet. Or snow. I’m sure I saw one of BBC Scotland’s finest give me a look of deep sympathy as she pointed to the minus one temperature prediction.

Our home was becoming steadily colder, despite sterling work by an elderly radiator and two fan heaters, which were not only burning enough electricity to power Kiribati for a year, but probably also scorching a new hole in the ozone layer.

Want to know what that whale was doing in the Forth? She’d been sent by Mother Earth to tell me to knock off with the hot-air blowers, I was melting Antarctica.

We had no hot water. We smelled. We lurked indoors in perfect lockdown. The beagles of the West Kent Hunt could have lifted their heads, sniffed the air and nailed us in minutes. Don’t read that sentence aloud if you’ve had a sherry or two.

It had been six long, cold, smelly days. The part of the part, in accordance with the schematic, was to be delivered on Thursday.

On Thursday the chatty engineer did indeed return to the House of Cold, to tell us that the necessary part had been dispatched. To Bristol.

Cue intense discussion of overnight couriers and emergency deliveries. I offered to go and get it. Our car warms up nicely, and it has heated seats. A toasty bahookie for 14 hours there and back was quite appealing. Yes, I know travel is a no-no, but Nicola herself standing at the border couldn’t have stopped me.

On Friday, Scottish Gas Customer Service called. A part had been ordered. It would be with us by Wednesday.

No, they knew nothing of the fabled bit of Bristol. In other words, they hadn’t actually ordered the replacement doohickey until day six, and so the boiler was on schedule to be repaired 11 days after the first visit.

That particular call was answered by my calm, controlled Yorkshire husband. We can all agree that was the best idea.

The combination of no heating and no hot water had reduced me to a state of constant muttering fury, wrapped up in jumpers, fingerless gloves and a hat.

My hair was greasy enough to fry chips in, as my mother used to say, despite the best efforts of dry shampoos and attempts with boiled kettles and cups. I looked, sounded and probably smelled like Treasure Island’s Ben Gunn.

The last thing I needed was my near incoherent ranting captured on a customer services call recorded for training purposes.

My good friend Marie said: “Enough. Call this outfit, ‘Gas at your Service.’” Good name. They did exactly what it said. They arrived that afternoon, looked at the boiler, and said, we can fix that tomorrow. And they did.

Now I am cosily warm, as is my grudge against Scottish Gas, and I am as fragrant as Jeffrey Archer's wife.

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