Ding Dong

For the last fortnight, while I have been rushing about with exam scripts, neurotically counting, checking things off lists and muttering, Tony has been, in his snail-like way, causing a doorbell. The Professor bought this object in Edinburgh before Christmas – not a dread ding-dong, Avon calling,  Friedland chime, but a real brass bell, attached to a springy coil of metal. This in turn has to be attached, upside down, to something movable which will cause a wave-like reaction in the coil and a consequent dinging and donging of the bell. I can only say, he has been in bodger heaven, and quite a few things we have been pleading with him to do since before Christmas have gone undone while he gave it his full attention.. There is a hinge involved, at least one spring, quite a lot of brass wire, several neat little bits of wood, and the wheels off a kitchen pulley. The result would make the late Rowland Emett burst into tears of envy, but when you pull the knob, the bell rings. At last. Perhaps now he can be persuaded to sweep up the leaves (chance would be a fine thing). Unfortunately, Miss Dog, who is modern, refuses to believe that it’s a doorbell. When Tony was decommissioning the hideous Friedland chime, which hasn’t worked properly for years, it rang for one last time, which caused Miss Dog to leap alertly out of her chair and run downstairs barking. It would be quite handy if she made a habit of this, since sometimes people come to this solidly built house and completely fail to attract our attention, or there’s a game of silly buggers where they go to the back door and you go to the front, then you go round and they go round and we all go round and round till we meet somewhere by accident, but unfortunately, she seems to be saying, no Friedland Chime, no bark. Perhaps we have the wrong dog for our somewhat retarditaire mode of life.