I've just discovered time travel (but not in a good way) – Susan Morrison

For years now, a little electric radiator has lurked under the stairs. Occasionally, I tripped over it and that triggered the same argument every time.

Susan Morrison's house has been a bit chilly after the boiler stopped working (Picture: Mads Claus Rasmussen/Ritzau Scanpix/AFP via Getty Images)

“Why do we have this thing, can we get rid of it please?” That’s my side of the discussion. His side was always, “We might need it, don’t throw it out.”

I’d sigh, roll my eyes and mutter under my breath.

I hate it when he’s right. For the last four days that little radiator has been the main source of heat in the house.

On Saturday night, our boiler made like British Leyland in the 1970s and went on wildcat strike. All hot water and cosy radiators were withdrawn immediately.

Suddenly without the central heating we’ve been plunged back into the 1960s. That waking up in a bedroom where your nose nips with a chill warning of frost outside. Getting socks on fast, because even that nice thick bedside rug feels like an ice pack. Coming downstairs to a room cold enough to take your breath away and leave it hanging in the air in front of you.

With no working radiators for days now, icy fingers have reached into the wardrobes. We’re pulling on chilled clothes that put a shiver down our backs before our own body heat warms them up. I was getting PTSD flashbacks of brushed cotton sheets and nylon school shirts crackling with static in the freezing air.

Ice used to form inside the windows of my teenage bedroom. One cold winter, the Sellotape holding up my Donny Osmond poster froze and snapped, sending the entire Osmond clan crashing to the floor. I took that as a sign, and switched allegiance to Simon and Garfunkel.

There’s no hot water, beyond what we can boil in the kettle. Forget baths and showers, washing is a quick sluice at the pits and bits with a flannel. We’ve become paranoid about standing near people.

We must be the only ones happy about lockdown right now. Two metres is a comfortable distance if you suspect you might be honking. You may hate facemasks, but trust me, they can be your best friend if someone a tad gamey is too close to hand.

I worry that my signature body odour is so strong that I might be easy prey for a predator to track. Happily, there are few man-eating tigers on the walkway, even in darkest Leith, although it is worth keeping an eye on the seagulls.

The indefatigably cheery Andy from Scottish Gas has been playing a blinder, but what started out as seemingly simple became more complicated and now we are waiting not just for a part, but a part of a part.

Today, he checks the Stores. In there, he believes, lies the twiddly bit of the doodah that holds the key to hot water, warm radiators and showers.

In my mind's eye, Stores looks like the warehouse at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark. The Ark is sealed and stored, but some sinister force pulses inside.

As I recall, finding the Ark didn’t end well for those who opened it, keen though I am on melting Nazis. I don't care. Right now, I’d smack any ancient evil right in the coupon to get my central heating back.

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