All my life I’ve wanted a cuckoo clock. ALL my life and I exaggerate not, I’ve hankered for the hourly chirp of a cheerful wooden birdie — how much fun the passing of time would be. Unfortunately, I couldn’t justify spending good money on one when everyone else in the house thought them to be the ugliest things ever. However, in July, I had the good fortune to stumble across one in a second-hand shop for a mere £20. How could I resist! Having satisfied myself that it worked, I took it home and packed it away, patiently waiting for the day when our dining room would be decorated and it could take pride of place above the dining table.
Five months later, just before Christmas, a nail went through our new wallpaper and the clock was finally in place. We wound it up and quickly fell in love with its cheeky little chime and we all clapped with joy as it flew through its door with great gusto and enthusiasm. It didn’t keep great time, gaining around 5 minutes every hour, and it wasn’t too good at counting — sometimes it would cuckoo one too many, sometimes one too few chimes, but we forgave it, who wouldn’t. Even when it got stuck halfway out the door whilst chiming 5am, we fixed it, wound it up and set it on course for the day, Christmas Eve, little knowing that this, its second day in situ, was to be its last, for half-way through the afternoon it stopped, never to tick again. No amount of coaxing or bribing could bring it back to life. My dream had come to an abrupt end, which was bad enough, but little did we know then what was to follow for the cuckoo clock was casting its spell of doom and destruction across our Christmas.
Christmas Day — we rose to discover that Santa had been, the freezer had defrosted, there was a big wet patch on the kitchen ceiling and a puddle on the floor — evidence of someone having had an ultra-long shower and soaking the bathroom floor; not, we assume, Santa. We guessed that this had somehow tripped the electrics in the middle of the night, knocking out the sockets. We fiddled with the fuse board, got them going again and everything was fine until we started cooking dinner — dinner for seven, all of us plus my mum and brother — when *BANG!*, off they went again. *BANG!* *BANG!* Sparks started flying out of the box where the boiler is earthed next to the kitchen door, out of the fuse box and up through floorboards, very nearly giving the dog a heart attack. Nerves became increasingly frayed and cooking became something of a challenge as all the sockets in the kitchen kept conking out. Eventually we decided that it was safer to leave the electricity off, which meant the boiler didn’t work, so no heating or hot water, but better that than setting light to a gas pipe (which we later learned was a strong possiblity) or electrocuting someone. We eventually settled down to dinner, relieved we’d survived the experience and glad we were well stocked up with booze. That evening we huddled round the fire to keep warm only to discover that the lights on the Christmas tree had broken after a miserly 3 days working.
On Boxing Day things were no better on the electrics or heating front, but worse on other fronts — husband had taken ill with a stomach bug and the dog had developed an ear infection.
27th December, the stomach bug improved and the dog got some antibiotics from the vet. The electrician was called out and got us working again, having found long-gnawed wires all over the kitchen that will need to be properly fixed (our guess is the water from the shower had gone down the wall or something or other and found them). For good measure, we sprung a burst pipe, helpfully next to the place by the door that was sparking so energetically on Christmas Day. We called the plumber out who paled when he saw water, gas and sparking wires running along side each other. More water then started pouring through ceiling when daughter had a shower, so an immediate ban on washing was introduced, which is still in place, so be warned.
It’s now 2012 and we managed to reach the New Year alive without blowing up the house. The tree lights are going back today for a refund; the cuckoo clock, meanwhile, still hangs above the table. I’m back on eBay trying to find its replacement, though whether it’ll be another cuckoo clock remains to be seen. Happy New Year, everybody!
