By 'eck, it's cawd!

When I got home the other night, Dear Wife was sitting bundled up in scarf and fleece sweater. "I think there's something wrong with the boiler," she said "I can't get the house warm".

"Well, do you realize how cold it is outside?" I asked "That could have something to do with it."

Our house is comparatively small, which means it heats up very quickly, but it's also made of papier-mâché and spit, which means it cools down very quickly too. Our gas fire only has two settings, "On" and "Not On". When it's running, it has the living room toasty in no time, when it's off, things cool down fast. So, we spend a lot of time hopping up and down to meddle with the switch.

However, the fire only heats one room. The rest of the house relies on an ancient and rather frightening boiler which sits in a closet and emits loud rattles and clunks at regular intervals. The thermostat seems to operate under it's own volition with very little regard for the actual temperature and we've spent many a happy night, lying awake listening to it fire up and switch off, fire up and switch off, sometimes several times a minute. We've been warned by people who know about these things that it will need replacing soon, but at the moment we're frittering away our income on food and car repairs so it will have to wait. And to be fair, it does a passable job of keeping the house warm.

Except when temperatures plummet the way they have this week.

The very first Gunsmoke File relates how our friends in Phoenix were horrified when we announced our relocation to the frozen wastes of Colorado.

"Don't you know it's cold up there?" they asked. Well yeah, of course we did but as I pointed out repeatedly, it's supposed to be cold in winter. And one of the many delightful things about Colorado is that even in winter, the sun shines most days so while there may be snow on the ground, and ice in the shady spots, it's usually still comfortably warm outside.

But not this week.

I was spoiled on Monday because I drove the Subaru to work. With its powerful heater, road hugging tires and best of all, heated leather seats, I cruised down that hill and back up again at night, all the while wondering what everyone else was complaining about - the roads were fine, the snow wasn't so bad, it wasn't that cold. Sure, there were hurricane force winds out there (109mph recorded in Golden) but they didn't affect me. What's the big deal? I found out on Tuesday when I was back to driving my usual transport, Angus the 4Runner. Now I love Angus to bits, and he's taken me places I would be scared to attempt in the shiny new Subaru, but it has to be said, when it comes to luxury, the car manufacturers have moved on somewhat in the eighteen years since he rolled off the production line.

The heater works, sort of, in that it dries out your eyeballs while making no discernible difference to the temperature. The tires don't hug the road so much as caress it, in a gentle stroking motion. And worst of all, the seats have to be heated manually, namely by placing your butt on them for 45 minutes or so. Even the tape player refused to be roused from its slumbers, forcing me to rely on the radio, which never helps my mood.

Although the drive through the mountains wasn't too bad. It was only when I hit the town that things got really gnarly as a winter storm was in full force and traffic at a virtual standstill. Still, I made it into the office eventually, much to the surprise of the city dwellers who hadn't expected to see me at all. Having arrived late, I had to remain shackled to my desk until well after 7pm, but at least, I thought smugly, the roads will be better now. Wrong again Einstein.

Although the snow had for the most part been cleared, the ground itself was slick and shiny as sub-zero temperatures caused everything to be coated in a film of ice. There's nothing quite like that exhilarating little thrill when you feel your car begin to slide beneath you, especially if you're surrounded by much bigger vehicles, often traveling faster than you are. 2-wheel drive, 4-wheel drive, it's all the same when you're on ice and I think that's the best workout my heart's had since the last time I went out jogging.

Creeping along at around 35 mph I was passed by a blonde soccer mom type in a Ford Explorer doing, I would guess, about 70. About 1/2 a mile ahead I saw her taillights suddenly begin to zig-zag as she fishtailed across three lanes of traffic. Luckily the drivers around her were driving cautiously and each had time to avoid her so she ended up on the hard shoulder, completely unharmed. As I passed her she was staring fixedly ahead with her knuckles white on the steering wheel. About 5 miles further on, creeping along at around 35 mph I was passed by a blonde soccer mom type in a Ford Explorer doing, I would guess, about 70. Sigh.

Still, Angus and I made it home unscathed and in no time I was indoors and ready for dinner. There's nothing like a big bowl of steaming hot, home-made soup on a night like this so it was a shame we didn't have any. Instead, I microwaved a pizza and munched disconsolately while huddling over the space heater. By bedtime we were, according to our cheapo thermometer on the front deck, down to -13F. I talked to the dogs to see if I could persuade them not to pee until say, May, but it was no dice. So, wrapping myself up like Nanook of the North, I dragged them outdoors for their evening constitutional. It was ear nipping, toe stinging, booger freezing cold out there - the kind of cold that sucks your breath from your lungs. Still, there's something inherently comically in watching a dog try to pee without putting any feet on the ground.

When I dragged my butt out of bed at 5:30, the windows were coated in Jack Frost's artwork - even on the inside. Cheapo thermometer told me it was -28F, which is bloody cold. I took one look at Angus, buried in a cocoon of ice, another look back at the kettle, and thought.

"Today, I'm going to work from home."