Not a typo.
A word coined in our household.
Control was of the utmost importance to him. From how long we were in the bathroom, to the way we walked up and down the stairs, and like many normal households, the temperature of the house.
It was as though he wanted us to literally feel like it was hell on earth during summer vacation. Our split level home would swelter as the afternoon sun beat down upon it.
And in the winters it would feel as though hell was freezing over, our noses perpetually red and half-frozen.
On the rare occasions the A/C would kick on, he would shuffle out of his lair, down the stairs and turn the manual dial until it audibly “clicked” off. The memory of the brief blast of cold air faded as did his steps back to his room.
Whenever one of us would pass by, to get a sip of water or a trip to the bathroom, the rest of us would whisper loudly “Clicky!”
This was an art. To turn the dial just enough to click it on and then turn it back to the setting it was originally on without it clicking off all the while holding your breath with eyes trained on his bedroom door. Any sound or sign of movement sending you scurrying.
It took years for him to realize this game. We were older and careless and fed up and hot.
We would leave the dial on 60 in bold faced protest.