I can’t come in today. I’ve got a date with my duvet

The clocks slunk back an hour and so we wake to a gloom that could please only Eeyore. It’s moaning weather. It’s groaning weather. It’s let’s all move to Australia weather. I know I’ll probably have my house burnt to a crisp in a bush fire, but it’s got to be preferable to this insufferable drizzle.

Which one of our stupid ancestors rocked up on the shores of this island, presumably having walked through Tuscany and the south of France en route from Africa, and thought, “Well I must say, this grey wasteland, this Goth record cover, is where I want to lay my hat.”

His wife and kids must have been well chuffed.

It’s what’s the point weather. It’s drink tea and stay in bed weather.

It’s questioning if your job is even worth getting out of bed for weather. And really, whose is?

Who does a job they love? Exactly.

So tomorrow morning, call in well, and leave.

“I can’t come in today Boss, my duvet won’t let me.”

You know you want to. You can’t ignore that little voice inside you whispering “Go on, do something better.”

Was it Leonard Cohen who said?

“From bitter searching of the heart, we rise to play a greater part.”Actually I think it was Jackie Chan in Rush Hour 2, but you get the point. I will! Yes, I will play a greater part. But I shall do that tomorrow. Today I have a date with my dressing gown and the box set of Breaking Bad. Have you not seen the forecast?

And if this winter is anywhere near as cold and as long as last year’s then heaven help me, I really am off. Especially with the price of heating these days. Now I understand what my parents were banging on about by getting us kids to shut doors and switch off lights, and put on a jumper and don’t have too deep a bath. They had to pay the bloomin’ gas bill.

And I realise as I chase after my daughter to do the same, 30 years later, that I have turned into my father. There’s a lovely scene in the Royle family, where someone asks the dad that perennial question: “What were you doing when Lady Diana died? He replies: “I don’t know, but I bet one of you had left the immersion heater on.”

There’s to be an inquiry into the cost of heating isn’t there. The Government don’t tend to get much right in my humble opinion, but I think they’ve nailed it here.

Whether the Government actually care, or whether they just realise it’s a vote-winner I don’t know. OK, that’s unfair, I’m sure many an MP realised just how expensive fuel prices had got, as they were claiming the expenses of heating the stables at their eighth home.

Bring on the enquiry I say, smash the monopoly. Burn the rich. Err, no hang on, I don’t mean that. But I may need to burn something other than gas, if they keep hiking the price.

Last year I got a £500 quarterly gas bill. £500!!

“I’m ringing them up!” I said to my then girlfriend.

“You’ll just lose your temper like you always do.”

“I won’t,” I said, and rang them.

“500 quid, 500 **%&£!!ing quid, you **%&£!!ing *&@£$!!!”

“Oh, don’t worry sir, that’s just an estimate.”

ESTIMATE! Why is it an estimate? Am I not paying enough for them to bother to come round and actually check?

What other item would you estimate the price?

“Excuse me, how much are these trousers?”

“50 pounds.”

“ Are they?”

“No idea, that was an estimate.”

So since we’re all guessing how much my fuel bill is, how about I make the estimate? Mr Gas Company, you owe me a tenner.

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