Flue Epidemic

This is the story as it was told to me;

The house was of 1930's vintage.

A two storey bay to the front elevation, red oxide painted hung tiles at first floor level and with a white coarse pebbledash to the remainder under a Rosemary tiled roof. Thes traditional and character features had been visually appealing. The property had stood out from the tens and possibly low hundreds scrutinised in the property supplement.

In the process of prospective purchasing categories were set  as "no-hoper", "not sure", "probable" and "worth a closer look". The house had easily qualified for the latter.

When viewed through the local Estate Agent it did not disappoint. A builder had acquired it from a relative only a few short months before and had fully renovated the interior in a tasteful neutral magnolia to accentuate the brand new beech worktop fitted kitchen, stylish white bathroom suite and a full wall to wall array of pine wardrobes to the main front bedroom. The only surviving authentic features were the internal doors, two thirds vertical fluted panelled in dipped and stripped pine and the living room fireplace. This comprised a slate bed mantelpiece and scrolled supports with veneered slate uprights around an open hearth.

The house, in refurbished show home format, had included a bowl of fragranced pine cones in the hearth itself.

The purchase progressed swiftly with no major hiccups or dramas. With keys in hand following legal completion of the transaction the proud new owner had the first proper snoop and look around. Some of the magnolia would have to go of course but otherwise it was perfect. A moving in date was set to coincide with the end of the tenancy on the current residence.

Meanwhile, the family attended and passed judgement. The mother filled up with tears at the sight of a fitted kitchen. Hers had and still consisted of a freestanding pantry cupboard and a belfast glazed sink. The father, expertly kicked the skirting boards and marvelled at the exactly snug mitred joints on the original internal doors- his own father had been a time served  joiner and would , if he had been alive,have appreciated the craftsmanship. Youngest sister opened up all the wardrobe doors in the main bedroom and mentally filled them with her extensive designer accoutrements which was a sure thing as soon as she got a first job. Brother sulked in the garden with a cigarette- life was just not fair and favourite siblings always got everything they wanted. Uncle John, that essential part of any family, speculated that the living room hearth would be fantastic as an operational coal fire. He dashed off to fetch his sectional sweeping brushes which were carefully secreted in his lock-up just for this very eventuality.

On his return he stood in the street and perused the chimney stack. Two clay pots, open mouthed. These corresponded with the living room chimney breast and another in the dining room. The brother, reassured of his usefulness was manhandled onto the opposite pavement with instructions to holler when the brush end emerged triumphantly from , definitely, logically, surely, the front most pot.

Uncle John made a proper performance of presenting the lengths of rods and the dramatic but suspiciously clean brush end. He actually lived in a ground floor council flat with no fireplaces or flues. The sweep set had been an impulsive internet purchase, more for accumulating fees at weddings as a business venture than an actual practical application.

As though a genetic trait Uncle John eyed up the hearth to ceiling height in the living room. The brush head was screwed onto two rod lengths. Mother fussed around with the travel rug from the car draping it on the fireside carpet in anticipation of an avalanche of  soot, bricks, dead birds and charred letters to Santa. With an artisitic fluorish Uncle John shoved the assemblage into the narrow opening above the hearth.

Through the window the brother scuffed the kerb and lit another cigarette whilst looking skyward. The head and first rod were out of sight but resistance was met surprisingly quickly. No matter how frequently and hard the retraction and insertion was repeated there was no vertical progress. Uncle John was frustrated. No one had thought to bring a kettle, tea bags, milk, sugar or, oh yes, cups and saucers so a brew was not on the menu. This only made matters worse.

The flue clogging properties of cheap Polish coal was a matter of discourse between the older members of those assembled, well those who could remember a British mining industry. Thing would never be the same when a nation lost the means to produce its own power. Mother kept quiet after transferring fathers utilities to Energy de France from British Gas.

The party migrated to the kerb. Two fireplaces, two pots. The menfolk instinctively scratched their scalps and balls. The women  waited for some inspired words of wisdom.

Youngest sister meanwhile had continued to create her own Carrie Bradshaw dimension clothes storage facility in the fitted wardrobes of the front bedroom, directly above the living room activity. She insisted that those present come and appreciate her visionary thoughts. Seeking any excuse to escape the impasse over the sweeping Uncle John was the first to ascend the stairs followed by the rest of the real family. He was, after all, a self styled ladies man but not a poof for all that.

All stared at the expanse of open pine doors. There was certainly a vast square footage therein. A proper regular rectangle of storage space that could easily cope with the widest of retro 80's padded shoulder blouses and casual jackets.

Gradually the reality of the situation became apparent. There was no continuation of the chimney breast through the bedroom. Uncle John dashed off to fetch his ladders, another impulsive internet purchase for a ground floor flat dweller.

In the loft there was a sooty outline on the party wall where otherwise there would be a brick encased flue. The builder who had inherited the house had chopped out the bedroom chimney breast after having been impressed by a Phil and Kirsties gushing endorsement that extra storage would not only increase the value of the house but also secure a sale.

The mother was the first to giggle. The father soon joined in followed by the loyal but impressionable family members. Even Uncle John slapped his own bald pate in mock self ridicule. The brother, the hero of the hour returned from the local shop armed with cans of beer, shrink wrapped Cornish pasties, lots of packets of crisps and a rapidly thawing Vienetta.

The impromptu and happy picnic took place around a dusty bowl of pine cones, retrieved from the gas cupboard, which were ceremoniously placed in the gaping, useless hearth.