Blackberry Hill

This morning I was driving up the M6 when I found myself in some properly stationary traffic. It was a pleasant enough day, I wasn't in a hurry and so I played with my 'phone and thought about having a read of my book.

After a while, the 'phone rang. "Dad", said Milly's voice, "Did you remember you're picking me up this morning, please?" (The slightly superfluous "please" is one of Milly's charming idiosyncrasies.) "Yes, of course" I replied, although what I actually meant was that I had remembered her asking me once she'd mentioned it a moment before.

I could actually remember now where she was so I mentally re-routed although this made no difference to the car's velocity, which, at that moment, was non-existent. Eventually, though, we started moving and it was ironic that by the time I grew level with the interestingly burnt out lorry on the hard shoulder, I was going too fast to get a proper look.

Half an hour later I was in Arnside collecting Milly. It transpired that she'd left her 'phone at the previous night's party, so we had to go home via Beetham to collect it from another friend's house. This was a mildly sentimental journey as I'd lived in Beetham when my first marriage ended and Milly's friend lived in the same row of five houses.

The houses are actually quite interesting and were designed and built (presumably with a bit of help) by the architect who showed me 'round, a game old chap in his eighties, who still ran five miles every day. Spread over three floors with an open plan living room and kitchen on the top floor, access was via a wooden walkway (which you can see in the photo).

Perhaps the most interesting feature was the over-ceiling central heating. Yes, you read that correctly: whilst one can see the sense in underfloor heating - toastie for your toes, warm air rising to fill the room - this chap had gone the other way. There were two immediate and related consequences to this come winter time: the first was the odd sensation of walking into the house where the top of the room was warmer than the bottom - rather like walking into the sea - and the second was the fact that I'd sit reading wearing a jumper or two, only to find myself suddenly too hot when I stood up to fetch a glass of wine.

Still, plucky soldier that I am, I put up with the situation, and my daughters did the same although at their reduced height - they were aged between two and eight at the time - they endured the arctic conditions without even the mitigating experience of a warm head.

Then one night, I woke with a start. Now, I should point out that I sleep very deeply, so if I get woken within an hour or two of going to sleep, I am quite bewildered under the best of circumstances but on this occasion it appeared that someone was weeing on my bed. A steady stream of liquid was coming down onto my duvet. For a moment I wondered whether someone had broken in just so they could urinate on me but my head cleared and I turned the bedside light on. What greeted my eyes was not a disoriented burglar who'd been caught short but rather a small hole in the ceiling from which the contents of the central heating were pouring.

It seemed for a while that I would be up all night, travelling with buckets between bedroom and bathroom like a dishevelled and sleep-deprived Sorcerer's Apprentice, but eventually the flow subsided and I was able to go and sleep in one of the girls' beds, leaving Morning Fenner to deal with this unwanted complication to my life.

That was fourteen years ago but the houses seemed much the same, at least from the outside. Perhaps if I'd peeped in through a window I'd have seen the inhabitants wandering around in slipper socks, thermal long johns and bikini tops but, then again, it was a nice day today: I expect they haven't started warming their ceilings yet.