About a year ago, our combi boiler had died on us; it began its death throes with a loud banging, followed by a shrill tortured shriek, and finally a whiff of pale smoke as it exhaled its last breath.

After a frantic call from my wife, the landlord reluctantly promised to send out a plumber, sometime the next day.

Day 1.

When I arrived home from work the next evening, I could tell they had been by the boot prints on the carpet. I raised a questioning eyebrow to my wife and pleasantly asked if we had hot water yet. Something in the way she rolled her eyes told me that the boiler remained broken.
Apparently, when they arrived, they were immediately thwarted by a blown 20mm glass fuse, a rather common item that I usually carry in my own toolbox. Not to be deterred, they decided that a lack of electricity must be to blame, and went to investigate the circuit breakers, down in the cellar, ignoring the rather obvious amber light, glowing on the spur beside the boiler.

Day 2.

My wife called me at work when the plumbers returned. They arrived at the house holding aloft a small fuse, before walking triumphantly into the kitchen, and dejectedly out again a few minutes later.
"Well, what's wrong with it?" My wife asks.
The elder of the two tradesmen sniffs, before speaking in a tone that conveyed his years of collected experience and wisdom.
"It's knackered."
No further details about the fault were forthcoming, only that it's an old boiler, and they 'weren't surprised' that it had ceased functioning. But they told my wife not to worry; they'd telephone the landlord, and get him to authorize a new boiler.

Day 3.
Nothing happened.

Day 4.

Not only was a new boiler authorised, but they turned up early in the morning to begin fitting it. I decided to go to work a couple of hours late, and observe these 'experts' first hand.
The only thing missing from the battered transit they arrived in, was a 'Bodgeit & Scarper' logo on the side. The few tools they carried could have been purchased in a 50p bin in the market.
Their first job was draining the system. The Elder plumber located the drain tap the living room, a couple of inches off the floor, and attached a long, green hose pipe that was probably older than I was. I didn't realise at the time, but it also leaked profusely. Next they began dismantling the boiler. The frequent curses and cries of pain that filtered through the closed door were beginning to make me doubt their professionalism. My opinion dropped further at their frequent requests to borrow tools. After all, how many 'tradesmen' don't carry a tape measure, or a pozi-drive screwdriver? Eventually though, I had to leave and make my way to work.

At lunchtime, I called the wife, and asked for an update. The plumbers had left, and gone to another job, with the promise of returning in a couple of hours. The hosepipe that trailed through the door was still there, leaving my wife unable to close the front door.

When I returned that evening, the plumbers had gone, and the job was finally finished. I took my shoes off and... and stepped into a pool of black water, slowly seeping through the living room carpet, from the leaking pipe. The kitchen was worse. Chunks of plaster littered the floor and sideboards; black smears covered the floor. The washing up bowl was stained black. The fridge had been unplugged,(again), and to top it all off, the new boiler wasn't even mounted straight. There was no sign of several of the tools I had lent them, but at least we have hot water now.

The moral of this story is that not all cowboys wear hats.

I was flicking through google news this morning, when I came across a story posted in 'The Scotsman'. It seems that councils have banned the age old practice of kids making ice slides in the playground.

I kid you not. You don't believe me? Ok then, here is a link to the story.

http://scotlandonsunday.scotsman.com/index.cfm?id=107472007

For those who don't like the tedium of clicking through links, I'll give a brief synopsis.
Councils have decided that because of health & safety fears, kids will no longer be allowed to make ice slides in the playground. any slides that the kids do make will be summarily salted, to protect our poor darlings.

Have you ever tried an ice slide? As kids, we used to make them at school. Often spanning the length of both playgrounds. We used to stand in line, queuing for our turn, dashing towards the slide, feet positioned like a surfer, arms outstretched, gliding at breakneck speed. What fun it was; one of the highlights of winter. There were injuries of course; bruises, cuts, a damaged ego or two, but it was all part of growing up. A bruise was forgotten in moments, a small cut, easily treated with a plaster and an embarrassing fall laughed off.

To be completely fair to the councils, they're not really the culprits, at least not this time. The fault lies with the litigation lawyers. You can't walk down a street these days without someone stopping you and asking if you've had an accident in the last couple of years. It's these people, this mentality that's making things so difficult these days. Everyone's afraid of being sued, so they're protecting themselves the only way they can; with overzealous health and safety rules, minimising all possible risk of injury and therefore hostile lawsuits.

For example,
One company I've worked at, (an engineering company I'll add) noticed that a majority of its reported accidents involved fingers and hammers, so they banned hammers. They sent people around the factory, rummaging in tool boxes collecting everyone's hammers for immediate disposal, confident that they were making the workplace safer for everyone. The next day, some bugger hurt himself whilst trying to hit a nail with a large adjustable spanner.

It's because of these lawyers, that coffee machines have large warnings on saying 'caution, drinks may be hot', and a packet of peanuts carries the warning that it may contain traces of nut. With the smallest amount of common sense, we should be able to work out that a, tipping a pot of fresh coffee over our heads may hurt, or b, if you're allergic to peanuts, then a packet of dry roasted probably isn't the best choice for you.

The thing is, the common sense that we need for this, we gain by experience in childhood. We learn these things the hard way. We learn that ice is slippery by falling, but we also learn better balance. We learn that fresh coffee is hot, but we learn to carry the cup without burning ourselves. The dirt we ingest whilst playing outside strengthens our immune system. The list is endless. Every risk has its benefits. The more safe and sheltered your childhood, the less prepared you will be for adulthood.

I suppose that I am a little guilty too. As a parent, it's easy to be overprotective of your kids. Watching my son playing is not for the fainthearted; it's scary, but when he falls, it only takes a kiss better before he's back up, injury forgotten, scaring his parents again.

I am often confused by the antics of our social masters. I never could follow the twisting turns of unfamiliar logic that they use to reach their decisions. Perhaps that is why they, the kind souls that they are, try to influence my life in so many ways, benevolently removing the difficult burden of personal choice from my ignorant shoulders, always keeping an eye on what I do, like a concerned elder sibling.

Take for example the current recycling craze that's sweeping the country. Different coloured bins are appearing at a frightening rate; they're breeding on our very doorsteps, adorning themselves with colourful stickers that detail explicitly (with pictures and everything) what we can and cant put in them. There's even been rumours about a secret bin police that checks the contents, just to see if you're being a good citizen and following the rules.

Only a couple of days ago, I returned home to find yet another bin being delivered. They were everywhere; reminiscent of an episode of Dr Who; resplendent in council approved faeces brown.

As I turned into the dirt-track that runs beside our row of terraces, I happened across a Council drone delivering one of these plastic monstrosities to my own door.
Cheerfully, I called out to him and asked what the brown bin was for. The interruption was clearly unexpected. The light in his eyes dimmed as underused synaptic pathways were explored as he searched for his answer. Luckily, help was at hand in the form of a two foot sticker on the front of the bin, proclaming it for 'garden waste only'.

"It's for garden waste." He said at last.

I took a deep breath. This was going to be difficult.

"I don't know if you've noticed," I began, "but I don't have a garden."

He looked at me suspiciously, as if I'd hidden it, just to play a trick on him. I was tempted to roll up my sleeves to prove that I didn't have a vegatable patch hiding there, but I thought I'd try reason first.

"Seriously," I continued, "none of these terraces have a garden."

That was it. He needed help. He needed someone who could grasp the complexities of this intricate situation, someone sage enough to offer advice on how to proceed. So, he yelled to the foreman.

The foreman promptly arrived, nodding wisely as the situation was relayed to him, rechecking the address on the tattered clipboard against the number on my door, before turning back to me.

"So, you don't want it then?"

I re-explained that since none of the houses on my block had gardens, giving each of them a bin for garden waste was at best an exercise in futility. Five minutes later, I realised I was getting nowhere so I just conceded the fact that no, I didn't want one of their attractivly coloured bins.

The result? I got them to take it away again, but everyone else on my block now has a four-foot tall, wheeled, faeces coloured container outside their house, despite the fact that they don't have a garden.