Mr Barbe's 'heating' system

It's too easy in a town house. You flick the switch and on goes the heating. There's nothing to talk about. But in Maisons les Chaource, in the middle of winter, snow falling, and Mr Barbe's splendid 'reversable air-conditioning' installation as the only solace between me and minus 15 degrees outside, a whole new world of conversation opens up. It turns out that 'reversible air-conditioning' only works when it's not too cold. On a balmy day I get the remote control and point it up to my little beast on the wall, and hey ho, 20 degrees of warmth. My neighbours are in total delight. They got Mr Barbe to do a bit of work for them too, but he had already started to show the more petulant side of his character in my house before the work in theirs had progressed too far. Then Mr Barbe had a heart attack and died. And while I get out hot water bottles and a new secret bed warming miracle in the shape of a hairdryer to toast the bed, my neighbours assure me they are having to open their upstairs windows and swan about naked. They have installed, at vast expense and days of professional expertise, something called an 'insert'. It puffs heat right around their houses. And only takes about 1200 euros of winter wood to fuel it. I stall . And think about a little wood-burning stove from the 1950s that hubby acquires from Philippe next door from his auction sales. It takes me about six months to find the appropriate size pipes that are no longer standard, and then Claude comes round and tells me that it would all be fine. Of course it could work with coal, and sit next to the fridge, and he could fit it up to the chimney if my own programmed workman never turns up (which appears to be the case) but did Mr Barbe ensure that the chimney was secured with 17 cm of plaster or cement all round it where it touches the beams and floorboards. Claude says he couldn't sleep the night if he installed it for me but there was no 17cm of safety. I go round to Philippe for a drink. Amazingly 17cm of plaster just pops up in the conversation. No, says Claude, the only solution is to put a new wood-burning stove that can take 50cm logs, so quite a big one I'm fearing, in the sitting room. Again I stall. I have a huge log pile. It's about 3 metres high and 5 metres long but it is to block out my neighbours' new extension. I cvouldn't possibly reduce it in any way. Strikes me the easiest thing is to turn the oven on in the kitchen, stay in Paris, or go to bed. But Claude is insistant.He tells me that I can pay him in two goes. That I can buy a second hand stove. That his wife Francoise can give me all the good websites to find one. We're about to have a whole week in the countryside. He could do it for me. But I know if he does it will be the end of an era. I'll be naked upstairs like everyone else and conversation will revolve around the as yet uncharted territory of axes and power tools.