There comes a point every autumn when the temperature inside the house stops being “a bit fresh” and starts becoming genuinely unreasonable.
For several weeks you’ve resisted putting the heating on because once that thermostat moves, something psychological happens. Summer is officially over. You’ve surrendered. More importantly, somewhere far away, an energy company has detected movement and is presumably opening champagne. So instead of simply turning the heating on like a normal person, you begin an elaborate campaign of avoidance. First comes the jumper. Then the thicker jumper. Then socks. Eventually you’re sitting on the sofa under a blanket wearing enough layers to survive an expedition across Antarctica while insisting, “It’s actually quite nice once you get used to it.” Nobody has got used to it. Everyone is freezing. The dog has begun looking at you as if considering alternative accommodation. Still, the heating remains off because it’s only October and there are principles involved.
At some point, somebody makes the first move. “Shall we put the heating on?” The room goes quiet. This isn’t a casual suggestion. You’ve effectively proposed a major infrastructure investment. Immediately the negotiations begin. “It’s not that cold.” Someone checks the thermostat. Seventeen degrees. This produces wildly different interpretations depending on who is looking at it. One person reacts as though seventeen degrees is dangerously close to hypothermia. Someone else insists seventeen is “perfectly comfortable” while sitting beneath a blanket with only their eyes visible. Another person touches a radiator for absolutely no reason, presumably hoping it might have spontaneously become warm despite the boiler having been switched off since April. Nobody simply presses the button. That would be reckless. First there must be consultation, debate and an informal assessment of the household’s financial position.
The thermostat itself suddenly becomes the most important object in the building. For the rest of the year nobody really notices it. You walk past it hundreds of times without acknowledgement. But on the first cold evening, everyone becomes a climate scientist. Someone suggests 21 degrees. Absolutely outrageous. Twenty-one? Do you think we’re heating a tropical butterfly enclosure? Someone proposes 18. That’s dismissed as pointless. Eventually 19 is accepted as a compromise after negotiations that make international peace talks look straightforward. You approach the thermostat carefully and turn it upwards. Click. That’s it. One tiny movement. Yet emotionally it feels as though you’ve just authorised the construction of a second runway at Heathrow.
Then comes the silence while everyone waits for the boiler to respond. A few seconds pass. Nothing. You begin wondering whether it still works. After several months of inactivity, perhaps the boiler has forgotten its purpose. Then, somewhere inside the house, you hear it. A faint mechanical rumble. Pipes begin making those strange little ticking noises. The radiators slowly awaken. You walk over and place your hand on one. Still cold. Thirty seconds later you check again. Slightly warmer. Another household member checks a different radiator and announces, “This one’s getting warm,” as though reporting a successful experiment from CERN. Within ten minutes everyone has become obsessed with touching radiators. “Is yours hot upstairs?” “The bathroom one’s warm.” “Try the living room.” It is remarkable how quickly functioning central heating can turn an ordinary family into a team of amateur heating engineers.
Then the warmth actually arrives and something extraordinary happens: everyone immediately forgets how cold they were. Twenty minutes earlier you were prepared to burn the dining chairs for survival. Now someone announces, “It’s getting a bit warm in here.” This person must be ignored because this is how thermostat wars begin. Another person quietly walks towards the controls and reduces the temperature by half a degree. Within minutes somebody else notices. “Who’s turned the heating down?” An investigation begins. Nobody admits responsibility. Suddenly you’re dealing with an unauthorised thermostat adjustment in your own home. There are only four possible suspects and one of them is lying.
Of course, modern heating comes with apps, which should theoretically make everything easier but instead allows you to obsess over the temperature from anywhere in the world. You can now sit in a restaurant and wonder why the living room is 20.3 degrees when nobody is at home. You can check whether the heating has activated while lying in bed rather than walking twelve feet to the thermostat. Technology promised convenience but what it actually delivered was the ability to monitor a radiator from another county. Worse still, you can see charts. Charts mean data, and data means you’ve begun analysing your own warmth as though you’re managing the energy portfolio of a multinational corporation. “Interesting, it was on for forty minutes this morning.” Nobody has ever said a sentence like this and sounded truly relaxed.
The most powerful figure in any heated household, however, is the person who believes they’re personally responsible for every unit of energy consumed. This person develops supernatural abilities. They can sense an open window from two floors away. Somewhere upstairs, somebody cracks a bedroom window by approximately three centimetres and a voice immediately echoes through the house: “WE’RE NOT HEATING THE STREET!” Nobody knows how they detected it. Perhaps certain people can perceive escaping heat in the same way sharks detect electrical fields. Doors must now remain closed. Dressing gowns are encouraged. Anyone complaining of cold is instructed to “put another layer on” despite the fact they’re already dressed like they’re waiting for a replacement bus in Reykjavik.
Eventually the household settles into winter mode. The heating comes on automatically. Radiators become part of the scenery again. Nobody gathers around them excitedly. The thermostat ceases to be a topic of daily debate. You accept that warmth is simply one of those extravagant luxuries you apparently require to remain alive. But the first switch-on of the year is different. It represents surrender. It marks the official moment when optimism about an Indian summer finally dies and Britain accepts that the next several months will involve darkness at teatime, permanently damp pavements and asking each other whether the heating is on.
And inevitably, after weeks of resistance, financial anxiety and repeatedly telling everyone to put a jumper on, there comes an evening when the house is beautifully warm. You’re stretched out on the sofa, comfortable and smug, enjoying the magnificent benefits of modern central heating.
Then someone walks past the thermostat.
Stops.
Looks at the display.
And says the most terrifying words imaginable:
“Who put it up to 22?”
Suddenly nobody is relaxed anymore.
