Whatever you say about Ireland (and I’ll have to be careful here because G might be watching and send me a stern email), everyone, however bloody useless they may be at sorting out what you want, is never less than friendly. Frankly, part of Ireland’s charm is the fact that you can’t get anything sorted out within less than ten working days. It’s a laid back attitude that we’re kind of used to by now and somehow it’s an even nicer surprise to find a workman at your doorstep than it would be if you hadn’t actually completely lost the will to live while waiting for them. We’ve also learnt that there’s absolutely no point in ranting or losing your temper, because the person on the other end of the phone, whilst remaining perfectly calm and helpful, will not be budged and will promise nothing more that a visit within ten working days. Five if you’re really lucky.
Having frozen our bums off for the first day in the new house because there was no heating oil, we were very grateful to see a large oil truck pull up. The delivery man was really friendly and helpful, and between him and the unintelligible engineer (who was fixing the gas hob, see below), we soon had hot water and warm radiatiors and could finally shed several layers of our clothing. You see, quite apart from the fact that you have to wait a long time, eventually you are rewarded with a warmth (sometimes literal) and helpfulness which is, I think, indigenous to Ireland. Bravo!
Even more perplexing was that when the big, burly Sky man finally came to fit our dish, and we’d spent several Euro of our call credit trying to guide him to us, he then refused point blank to enter the house because he was scared of the dog. Well, I’m ashamed to say that not only Hubby and I, #1 and #2, but Hubby’s Mum and Nephew all dissolved into hysterics. Quite apart from the fact that the guy was the size of a small building, the aforementioned ’scary’ dog was curled up into a painful-looking boney ball on her bed, and doing that weird greyhound snoring thing of blowing her lips out in a big raspberry with every breath. Once we’d established that the only damage she could possibly do him was maybe to fall asleep on him if he stood still for too long, we persuaded him to come in. Eyeing the furry phantom raspberry blower warily, the Sky man set to work, and before long yet another hurdle had been leapt. Yey! An unseemly brawl followed for the buttons, which I won, and once again was immersed in my little UKTV Food world of Rachel’s Favourite Food and Gino D’Acampo (phwoar).
The man that came to make the gas hob work wasn’t scared of the dog (although he was astonished that we kept her inside the house), but was, unfortunately, completely unintelligible to all of us. As you well know from reading my ramblings, I’m not the most spectacular understander of accents, but boy, this one took the biscuit. Anyhoo, we got through with hand gestures, gesticulation and guesswork, and soon enough came to realise that having gas isn’t a matter of just turning on the hob, oh no. You need a gas bottle outside, then you need it connected by a little pipe through the wall and then you need a very sweet but incomprehensible man to come and plumb it all in for you. Hubby was despatched to the village shop to get a gas bottle and soon we were cooking on gas. Literally. Another job jobbed as my Mum would say.