There’s been another mishap on the plumbing front.
Sans shower, it seemed wise to test out the new bath this morning – before Dave hoved into view.
All went well, till I unplugged. I’d barely levered myself into an upright position, when a banshee-like wail sliced through the house. It’s a wonder any window survived.
In her youth, the current Mrs C was as nimble as a goat, and won her school’s 50-metre dash four years running. These days, she’s not so light on her feet. By the time she’d hauled herself up to the landing, and yelled at me to put the plug back in, the point was academic.
A certain amount of swearing ensued, much of it at my expense.
I couldn’t help but notice her hair had seen better days and remarked upon it. A big mistake. Mrs C exploded a second time and left the room in seriously high dudgeon.
I soon discovered why.
She had, it seemed, been innocently entertaining herself at the kitchen sink, when half a gallon of soapy water emptied itself through the ceiling (not for the first time!) and on to her head.
Enough to rouse the meekest soul – let alone a woman who has won ‘Best Kept Kitchen In The Village’ three years on the trot.
Having at last calmed down, she dried, dressed, and headed off to the shops to recover. As a woman does at times of crisis. I was left to sort things out, with dire threats in the event that I failed to accomplish the deed.
When Dave arrived some time later, he spent a good five minutes examining the damage, stroking his chin philosophically. At last, he said, ‘I wonder how that happened?’
I held back from suggesting a theory. It seemed to me the least said the soonest mended.
Eventually stirring himself into life, he ripped off one side of the bath, to discover a fitting had worked its way loose. ‘These things happen,’ he said. ‘It’s par for the course.’
Everything that goes wrong with Dave’s work seems to be ‘par for the course’, but I kept this opinion to myself.
After much huffing, puffing, screwing and unscrewing, he finally pronounced the thing fit for purpose. Though, to be on the safe side, he pumped half a tube of industrial mastic into every hole he could find.
Dave can move swiftly when occasion demands and, by the time Mrs C returned home – stumbling under the weight of more department store bags than the human body was designed to carry – the kitchen looked more like its old self.
‘It will need painting,’ she said. ‘And he needn’t think he’s charging us extra.’
Of course, the shower’s still not in place.
‘We’re behind schedule again,’ Dave told me over his afternoon tea and biscuits. He likes the word ‘we’. It apportions blame and lightens his load.
As far as I can tell, Dave’s been behind schedule since the day he began. At this rate, he’ll still be with us at Christmas.
But I don’t tell him that. It might put ideas into his head.
Thought for the Day
‘Question: Why did the Post Office have to recall their range of stamps showing famous lawyers? Answer: The public were confused. They didn’t know which side to spit on.’
Che Guevara (1928-1967)