The saga of our quest to get cavity wall insulation is rumbling on into next week.
It all started around January this year when a representative came to our door from a company offering free cavity wall insulation. Someone -- I've still not worked out whether it was the government or our power company -- had set those companies some installation targets and it looked as though they were about to undershoot them so periodically they threw "freebies" at households to make sure those targets were met and they'd stay in business. I put "freebies" in quotation marks because one way or another, we've already paid for such work with our taxes and/or utility bills (and the VAT on these). Nice to see at least a tiny fraction of it trickle back.
So we pounced on the offer and a survey was arranged. Survey Man came, measured out the house and said "All good to go" and someone would be in touch. Some weeks later another man came with the equipment, did a bit of drilling and then wandered in to tell us that there was a problem with the depth of the cavity and that it couldn't be done, sorry mate, someone'll be in touch.
By this point spring had arrived and we still had no cavity wall insulation. Eventually, a quality control person rang back to find out what was going on. OH explained. He's very good at these things: always firm, polite, humorous -- and instant-steel as soon as he feels the person at the other end is trying to take the proverbial. Me? I'd have just gone Bavarian Barbarian and barked something untoward down the line, ruining some poor working girl's lunchtime.
The quality lady apologised to OH and promised that someone else would be round to re-survey the previous Survey Man's survey. Next Survey Man came round and did his thing, confirmed the findings of the previous Survey Man and declared the job perfectly doable.We agreed that Cavity Man had probably had what the trade euphemistically calls a "last-job-on-a-Friday" problem. In any case, someone would be in touch.
When they rang, they had an unpleasant surprise for us: by now the "freebie" quota had run out and they were now back on their usual rates, which were, they said, between a very reasonable £50 and £100 for a load of styrofoam blown up my house's backside.
No bleeping way, I said to OH. Nice try. Let me ring them and tell them what I really think about their 'quality processes'.
OH said he'd take care of it.
The result was that the company caved in, as it were, and promised to do the work under the originally agreed conditions, i.e. at no extra cost to us. Not exactly sure what OH threatened them with but he did it so charmingly and disarmingly that the poor sod at the other end only realised well into the conversation that OH had him dangling over the abyss of reputational ruin.
Another quality lady rang and made an appointment: for today, in the afternoon. As readers of my blog know, the dry weather meant we've suspended our interior decoration plans and cracked on with the garden revamp. The inside of our house, both floors, is currently looking as though a bomb has exploded. OH warned me that the Cavity People would need access to all affected rooms from the inside but I thought, oh well, we've got the morning to tidy up and move the plants out of their way.
I'm still upstairs waking up, reading John Seymour's Self-Sufficiency bible, drinking OH's glorious coffee and thinking about whether or not I've done enough for our cauliflowers to form heads this year, when I hear a van park up in front of our house and the doorbell rings. I look outside. It's Cavity Wall Company, about 5 hours early for an afternoon job.
Thankfully OH is already dressed and can answer the door -- I'm not. Two lads outside, ready to go. OH organises them while I jump into some adequate clothing and instantly start fretting about the disgusting state of the kitchen which both of us had completely neglected last night after a lovely patio meal outside and generous refills of just-matured cherry-flavoured Falling Down Water.
I sort out the kitchen, then have a quick bite for breakfast and a second cup of coffee. I'm too old for such unscheduled interruptions! The cats are as frazzled as me and wander brainlessly between the builders' feet. I try to stay out of their way to avoid grumping at them. It's not their fault. OH will have to have another chat with the quality lady again.
The drilling begins -- all very reassuring. I drink my second coffee and bite into a delicious breakfast sandwich and slowly ease into my morning -- I'm on holiday after all. OH joins me on the sofa and skilfully de-grumps me further. We start making plans for the rest of the day: go out and get the bathroom flooring sorted, crack on with the garden, felt the wood shelter roof.
The drilling stops. And doesn't pick up again. I look at the clock -- only 10am. Bit early for a tea break, but maybe we're their second job? Workers deserve their breaks so I don't do anything. OH goes out to investigate.
When he comes back, he's smiling helplessly.
"Their drill has broken down."
I say nothing. Initially.
"Can't they use their spare?"
"The spare is being serviced. They've only got the one."
"Can't they go back to the depot and get another one?"
"It's 80 miles away."
OH tells me the guys had apparently spent 5 minutes deciding who'd be the one to break the news to us.
So now we're in the category of "let-down customer" but that still means we don't get to pick our preferred date next week, i.e. the day our stove is being installed, but have to settle for the following day. Another Friday. What are the odds of another mission-critical equipment failure occurring? Or the odds of them discovering a protected bat species in there? And can I believe the drill story or is there something about our house that makes the actual workmen want to run a mile? Have they found a body in there? Or some sort of evil message?
The more this goes on, the less I'm inclined to think of this as a "freebie" anymore. The days technically lost to working or paid-for leisure because of this multi-month-long omnishambles or, as OH calls it, "complete Charlie Foxtrot" means we're essentially left out of pocket more than we would have been, had a normal company just come in on the arranged date, filled the cavity walls with stuff, grabbed our £50 quid and buggered off again.
Hope to be able to report closure by next Friday. Our next winter fuel bill had better be spectacularly low.
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