How do I love thee?…

Yeah, well… Meditation. There’s a Thing. Sounds like it should be a piece of piss really – just sit still, be quiet, and don’t think. Who’d have believed it could be SO HARD? But before I launch into a lengthy discourse on the Many Difficulties of Meditation, let me tell you about the weather station.

Totally in-keeping with the Quantum Law of Sod, Simon’s much-loved and depended-upon weather station chose the very moment when he was out of the country to malfunction. Probably it was missing the attention that is usually heaped upon it by its adoring owner. Being somewhat less addicted than Simon to knowing precisely how finger-numbingly cold (or not) it is at any given moment, it took me a day to notice that the weather station display next to his computer wasn’t showing the outside temperature. I sort of thought “oh well….” and went about my finger-numbing outside chores as usual. The water buckets were only a little frozen, but there was a chill wind blowing. The weather station in my head estimated it was probably around zero degrees, with a real feel of minus three, courtesy of the nasty wind and lack of sunshine.

Chores complete, I got back into the relative cosy of the house, and checked the weather station to see if it agreed with my head. Still not working. “Oh well… ” again. Except that it then occurred to me that, if the outside thermometer wasn’t sending any information to the weather station, the weather station would be failing in its mission to inform the world of the minute-by-minute climate in our little neck of the Allier woods. Plus, Simon would be freaking out at the big, empty hole in his data. The data that he likes to recite to me every day, pointing out interesting things like new records for rainfall/lowest minimum temperature/highest maximum temperature for this day/week/month of the year. If I (rarely) happen not to be in an irritable, fifty-plus-year-old-woman sort of mood, it makes me smile. The data is repeatedly blessed with new records. Which seems to delight Simon. And which seems to convince me that my intuitive suspicion of statistics is well-founded. Seriously… who in their right mind would expect the weather to be the same, year after year – predictable, for chrissakes?

But Simon’s nerdiness is one of those irritating things that I sort of love about him. He can’t help being a man… bless ‘im. And if I expect him to honour the million and one OCDs that keep me going through the years, (and believe me, that is a big ask), the least I can do is watch the odd game of footie with him on TV, and do my best to maintain his weather station in working order during his absence.

So I went back outside, climbed the nineteen steps leading to the attic door, and reached through the railings to where the thermometer hangs out, suspended awkwardly on a metal post below the platform at the top of the steps , as near to being in the shade as we can get it. Of course the wind gauge and the rain gauge are easy to reach, but the important bit with the power in it isn’t. I wiggled the wires a bit, and did my best to inspect the thermometer from this awkward position, but to no avail. I considered the advice that oft springs to mind in such circumstances, usually couched in a West Country accent for some unknown reason… “‘it it wiv an ‘ammer!” It used to work for malfunctioning bits of old cars – like starter motors, or petrol pumps. And in an adapted form, it has been known to work for flickering televisions, and un-spinning washing machines. But a nanosecond of reflection persuaded me that this inanimate object would be unlikely to respond well to such an intervention.

I went back inside and, knowing Simon would be on the road somewhere between his parents in Dover and his daughter in London, I sent him a loving email:
“The cumulus thermometer isn’t getting an outside temperature reading. What would you like me to do about it?”

When he arrived at his daughter’s house, he logged on to t’internet like I knew he would (nerds are more predictable than the weather), and booped me on gmail chat in response to my email (knowing that I too – honorary nerd that I am – would be on line).

Simon: boop. i am at Nikita’s
me: boop
Simon: all well. is the cumulus thermo still knackered?
me: yep
Simon: prob needs batteries changing but you can’t do that I fear
me: I looked and considered getting the ladder but wasn’t sure what bit to fiddle with
Simon: the fancy batteries I bought have proved a bit naff
me: lol
Simon: ladder, and lift upwards the bit that has vents on the sides . . . . slides upwards and removes. then you can see a battery compartment which opens. Change batteries and replace cover, then slide the outer shield back down on
me: where are new batteries?
Simon: there MIGHT be some in desk drawer. not sure if there are 2 left cos I put some in the indoor thermo just before coming here damn it
me: typical.
Simon: you could nip up to Spar and get some 🙂 has to be non-rechargeable alkaline batts
or you could use the two from the main indoor unit – they are nearly new and the right (AA) size
me: I’ll have a look tomorrow…I’m not doing it now in the dark cold lol
Simon: ok. it would be nice to sort then if poss, to avoid complete bollocks data. if problem tho, don’t worry
me: I know. I’ll do my best but it is only data after all lol
Simon: must be battery i think cos it has also lost outside humidity data. pain in arse, but as you say, only data after all
me: such is life
Simon: lol
me: would be bound to happen during your absence
Simon: if you do try the batteries, the unit can rotate around the mast to make enough room above to lift the vented cover . . . . otherwise you lift it up and it hits the bottom of the steps
me: tedious
Simon: sure, but don’t worry about it if it proves not possible, or you don’t fancy it
me: Will try it…. and fall off the ladder and freeze to death overnight, and then you’ll wish you hadn’t worried about it lol
Simon: argh, guilt
me: lololol
Simon: don’t do it
me: hahaha. I cannot promise either way. I’ll do what seems right at the time, and we will reap the consequences, be they good or bad.

Now, much as I seriously don’t give a damn about whether this January is significantly colder/warmer/wetter/drier/ windier than last January, I recognise that this sort of thing matters to some people. And conscious of the ever-growing gap in the data, I thought I should do what any good wife would do, and find a way to enable Simon to fill in the gap. So I put one of our inside thermometers outside on the window-ledge overnight, and checked the temperature at various intervals, so that Simon can attempt to plaster over the record-spoiling incident with reasonably accurate, manually-entered information. Actually, I’m only guessing this is possible. It must be. These are statistics after all… therefore it must be possible to make them say whatever we think they should say. My time employed in public service management wasn’t wasted.

And this morning, when my fingers were once again numb from the early round of animal chores, I tracked down the ladder (which Simon had cunningly hidden in the barn beneath a huge piece of cardboard), and set about risking life and limb to make my husband happy.

I like heights almost as much as I like feathers. Which, as regular readers will recall, is NOT AT ALL. And the stupid steps at the top of which the stupid thermometer is mounted are stupidly hollow underneath, and have a stupid peach tree growing in front of them, which does not make the establishment of a safe purchase for a ladder easy. After a bit of fiddling and faffing, and huffing and puffing, and wedging one ladder foot with a broken piece of flower-pot, I managed to precariously balance the top of the ladder very precisely just inside the edges of the only piece of solid surface where it would fit. And the ladder was only just long enough, so it had to be leaned against the steps at an angle that was not really within the recommended safety margin, glaringly demonstrated in little diagrams on the side of the ladder. The angle of this erection would most certainly score a cross, and there was nothing I could do to make it work in a tick-shaped position. Oh well. I figured that if it slipped, I could grab the flimsy branches of the peach tree to break my fall. And anyway, I was wearing so many layers of clothes to keep warm that I was almost wearing my very own air-bag.

So I bravely ascended the catastrophe-waiting-to-happen, and fought with the various white plasticness of the weather-station contraption, and eventually managed to liberate the dead batteries. But I stupidly failed to notice which way they had been placed. And I stupidly failed to have the replacement batteries with me. I descended the ladder and went inside to regain feeling in my fingers and use them dig the batteries out of the inside thermometer, as per Simon’s instructions. It is one thing to risk life and limb up a ladder on a freezing morning. It is another thing entirely to be arsed to drive to the shop in the nearest town and buy new batteries. Love has its limits.

So, armed with the replacement batteries, I went once more into the breach and veritably skipped up the ladder, and then tried to work out which way round to insert the batteries. Damn, without my glasses I couldn’t decipher the barely visible diagram indicating which ends the positive and negative bits should go. And unlike any other battery-operated thing I have ever seen, the terminals at each end were bloody-well identical. No clues. So I guessed, and went back inside to check the display.

Nada! Nowt! Bloody Nothing. Hmmmm… I suppose I may have put them in wrong. I’d better get up there with my glasses on, and try again. As I ascended the ladder for a third time, I reflected on all those occasions when I have castigated Simon for not thinking things through before he starts any car-fixing, plumbing-sorting, DIY sort of task. I whole-heartedly expected the ladder to slip, sending me tumbling rib-breakingly to the ground, just so that Simon could say something smug to me about how it wouldn’t have happened if I’d thought things through before I started.

But the Universe was kind to me on this occasion. Clearly it noted that I had learned my daily lesson of Understanding and Forgiveness, without the need for actual pain to reinforce it. But I didn’t want to push it. As I stood at the top of the ladder, with the new batteries in the correct position, it occurred to me that I might want to make absolutely sure it was working before I closed everything up, and reassembled the multitude of white plastic is its proper place, and got down for the last time, and put the ladder away. And then I thought, ‘Fuck it. I’ve done all I’m doing. If this doesn’t work, tough. My fingers are cold, I want some coffee. I’ve exhausted all my ideas and all of my patience. And because I am so much later than usual logging on to gmail chat, Simon is probably worrying his little cotton socks right off his little feet at this very second, imagining me lying in a growing pool of blood with my limbs twisted at unbelievable angles, and really wishing he didn’t care so much about the data.’

Of course the bloody thing still didn’t work. But an on-line exchange with Simon told me where to find the manual, and gave me some clues about how to (metaphorically) kick start the thing, and low and behold, within less than an hour, the weather station was once again telling me and the rest of the world that it was cold outside – albeit with the totally wrong time. Well, you can’t win ’em all.

Now, where was I? Oh yes…
Meditation. There’s a Thing …..