Trying to be a responsible senior citizen and reduce our carbon footprint, we contacted British Gas with a view to fitting some loft insulation in our Victorian cottage.
After a brief visit from the British Gas representative, the following poem ensued.
The irony of it is, the last workman in our loft was in-fact a British Gas man fitting the pipes when we converted to natural gas, how times change.
‘We need some insulation, our loft is very bare, British Gas were offering to fit it everywhere,
The idea was very tempting, so we rang and made a date,
They were inundated, so six weeks we had to wait,
We put off our lunch till later, hoping he would not be late, but he was very prompt, as we met him at the gate,
He came into our humble home, white slippers on his feet,
His telescopic ladder, made carrying it a treat,
Up went the ladder, into our loft, up went the gas man, he peered inside and coughed,
In seconds he was down again; “I’m sorry Mr Kade, there’s nothing I can, we can’t help you I’m afraid.”
“There’s no space inside your roof space, I think you will agree, we can’t send a man up there, it’s health and safety you see.”
“You can’t expect a workman to crawl about in there, there’s no space to stand up.”
To us he did declare. He packed away his ladder, his slippers he did stash, he was gone in an instant, the man from British Gas.
I guess our carbon foot print will be one enormous blob, unless we find a midget whose looking for a job.’
Little Carlton, Louth