What would we do without it

Sheep gibber, owls stand on their heads, trolls sing their hideous trollsongs and bats flee the nest, for indeed at the Lixtroll household plumes of turgid smeech have set off all the fire alarms and the Rayburn has gone out.

Disaster strikes, it is cold, the Janitor has to light the fire with damp kindling and logs, and what are we going to cook! And how is it going to get cooked, more to the point.

The oil-burning Rayburn's wicks have gone and stupid troll has forgotten to keep spares in reserve. The gas cylinder which feeds the hob from outside the kitchen is getting low. We are miles from civilisation and take-away land, and besides which it is the bank holiday weekend and the Grockles (Westerwitch's word for tourists) are out in force making the roads impassable further down the glen and blocking the bridge into the village with their caravans and shiny cars. What's more they shake their heads at us and tick us off for our slovenly country habits and lax driving! You see, there isn't a correct side of the road to drive on for most of the year round here, we just do as we please and we all know each other and we know who drives like what so it doesn't matter. But the Grockles would soon sort us out! They could give us a lesson or two and teach us the right way to do things! Furthermore they are in the village farm shop telling the owners how to store the food properly, and instructing the Co-op staff as to how to stock the shelves.

But I digress. What is that in the corner of the kitchen? The thingy with knobs behind the arm-chair? Erm, it's the wine cupboard, surely, hem-hem. But no it isn't. It's a neat and lovely electric oven. All I have to do is re-house the bottles of wine stored in its cavity, and it is an oven once more! Bingo, dinner town style, quick and easy.

The Rayburn is the heart of our house and there is almost always something cooking in it. It keeps us warm and dry and provides constant hot water. Its flue draws out all the nasty smells from the kitchen and the house always smells nice. It airs the laundry and dries the teatowels, pancakes get cooked on the hot hob and coffee stays warm on the other bit that isn't so hot. Stewed fruit lurks in the lower oven for breakfast in the morning, wafting fragrance and spice through the dark watches of the night, and the bread rises beautifully there too. Wellies and hiking boots and socks stay constantly warm and dry beside its cosy doors, as do the dogs. Bunches of herbs hang drying above, together with roses and sunflowers. Wine reaches room temperature on the bricks at its side.

More than that it is Bloggers' Corner for heaven's sake!

So here I blog beside the chill of cold cast-iron doors, with the electric oven opposite heartlessly fan-assisting the dinner with secretarial efficiency. Outside, the sky hovers above the hills, beige-brown, and a goodly portion of it has also drifted in through the door. I cast my mind back to our days in the city, and I cannot help but think how wasteful they were - how carelessly we burned electricity and gas, without thought to the detriment of the planet, the supplies invisible and seemingly endless, hundreds of thousands of us all doing it at the same time. And I should have known better, raised on Rayburns, and no reliable supply of electricity.

The oil which feeds our Rayburn is certainly not without guilt when it comes to our planet's well-being, I would be the first to admit. But we sure as hell are aware of where all our resources come from, and consequently they are metered out by the teaspoon-full in this house. This much-loved house in the middle of nowhere. Bring on the wicks, I say!

Meanwhile, whilst happily sitting blogging in the customary fashion, the dinner has been burnt to a crisp in overly efficient electric oven and has promptly gone cold on removal. It is also tasteless. That is just not proper heat!