Finally, a crisis has arrived, and I am belatedly stepping into the role I’ve prepared for all my life. So why is the heating on already?

D uring the fuel crisis of the mid-1970s my father became obsessive about lights and thermostats. The most serious violations of his energy-saving protocols were letting the heat out of the house and letting the cold out of the fridge. To this day I picture the contents of the refrigerator before I open it, so I don’t waste time browsing.

As a child this frugal regime appealed to me; the only thing I could see wrong with it was that I was not in charge. I imagined being a father myself, giving my kids stern lectures about not holding the front door open while the dog makes up its mind about going outside. That was the dream.

But my children grew up in an era of cheap energy, in a mild and forgiving climate. They wore shorts in February, slept with lights blazing, and left the hot tap running. I complained, but with no energy crisis to give it context, my disapproval had no bite. Gradually, I became accustomed to their world: I, too, learned to snatch up the remote to stop the TV from turning itself off while I was busy staring at my phone. How dare you, I would think; I was pretending to watch that.

Finally, a crisis has arrived, and with two of my children still living at home, I am belatedly stepping into the role I’ve prepared for all my life. At first I try to lead by example, but it’s hard. My computer printer has been on since, I think, 2018. I don’t even know how to turn it off. Once I’ve cracked it, I go on patrol.

“Loo lights off when not in use,” I say, flicking the switch as I pass by on Saturday morning.

“Uh-huh,” says the middle one, hunched over the coffee machine. My wife comes in from the shops.

“Somebody left the back door open all night,” she says. “And the heat came on at 5am.”

“The heat?” I say, my heart beginning to pound.

“Yeah, my radiators were all on when I woke up,” says the middle one.

“But I locked the back door as usual,” I say.

“I know,” my wife says. “But somebody came home at two, opened the door and went to bed.”

“Not me,” the middle one says.

“The central heating shouldn’t even be on yet,” my wife says.

“It doesn’t work like that,” I say. “The system responds to the ambient temperature according to a programme on an app on my phone.”

“So change the programme,” my wife says. “I can’t remember the password,” I say.

“Morning,” says the youngest one, his voice low and cracked.

“Somebody left the back door open all night,” my wife says.

“It wasn’t me,” says the youngest one. “Oh wait, it was me. Sorry.”

“Are you saying we can’t control the heat?” my wife says.

“It’s certainly going to be a challenge,” I say, “if we insist on leaving the doors open.”

“I said sorry,” says the youngest.

“Is this oven on for a reason?” I ask.

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“There was a reason,” the middle one says.

The youngest one opens the fridge and stares for a long time, before taking the milk and crossing the room.

“Fridge door wide open?” I say. “Please, let me get that for you.”

“Yeah, cheers,” says the youngest one. I think: my father knew how useless sarcasm was in these matters.

“You need to reattach the front door draught excluder,” my wife tells me. “It’s just lying on the mat.”

“Why is it lying on the mat?” I say. “Did you pull it off because you hate the planet so much?”

“Somebody’s in a bad mood,” says the youngest one.

“It fell off when I shut the door,” my wife says.

“Costs are rocketing, inflation is spiralling,” I say.

“Centrist dads are panicking,” says the youngest one.

“Money itself is dying,” I say.

The draught excluder is a sorry thing: a long, single-file brush that clips to a backing plate inexpertly installed by me some years ago. But when I bang it into place with the side of my fist, it stays on.

The TV is showing a football preview programme, to no one. The kitchen is now empty, except for the cat, which is waiting by the back door.

“There’s a flap,” I say.

I hold the door open while the cat looks into the garden, then up at me, then into the garden again.