After a lifetime of London living, an urban family, used to the conveniences of the city try adapting to life in the country. Where on earth do we think of moving to and how insane are we to even consider it?
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Insanely my first thought was to try and flush the toilet. Silly move – as soon as I’d pressed the handle I took a step backwards and thought of rushing for my wellies and mop as the murky water rose ever higher in the pan. Anxiously, on tip toes, I braced myself for the aftermath, when without so much as a whimper, something gave way and the level sank at a snail’s pace to somewhere resembling imminent disaster over.
Alarm bells rang in my head as I tried to reason the quickest and driest way to rectify this conundrum. We’ve only recently moved to the area. Not knowing our neighbours very well I didn’t think the quirky take on introducing myself and asking for help with the drains would particularly catch on; even if carrying a sugar bowl. The local yellow pages seem to have died a death with the advent of the internet. But after searching through a few websites I was not reassured by the ‘no call out fee’ offered by some, just seeing the pounds signs spinning before my eyes. I decided that the DIY option on how to locate and clear a blockage was a good place to start.
When I say I -you know I don’t mean me, exactly. Whilst I stayed at a safe distance looking out of the upstairs window, my newly appointed drainage expert, aka husband Nick, attractively dressed in protective boots, gloves and ripped old clothes, although without the peg I offered for his nose, removed the manhole covers. After poking makeshift rods along the brown piping in an attempt to restore the flow, he finally managed to hose the last of the offending articles along their way and out of our lives. Whilst I, from my vantage point, rigorously defended the drains against the verbal abuse they were receiving.
It’s not all bad; at least now we have a map of the seven manhole covers that hopscotch across the garden, joining up with one another on the other side of the house, then collecting the neighbour’s deposits and continuing off into the sunset. And to be fair to our friends, they may have just been the straw that broke the camel’s back, with so many bends in shallow drains - it’s surprising it hadn’t happened earlier.But it seemed this was part of the adventure that even the children failed to find exciting.
Teresa x
.
Insanely my first thought was to try and flush the toilet. Silly move – as soon as I’d pressed the handle I took a step backwards and thought of rushing for my wellies and mop as the murky water rose ever higher in the pan. Anxiously, on tip toes, I braced myself for the aftermath, when without so much as a whimper, something gave way and the level sank at a snail’s pace to somewhere resembling imminent disaster over.
Alarm bells rang in my head as I tried to reason the quickest and driest way to rectify this conundrum. We’ve only recently moved to the area. Not knowing our neighbours very well I didn’t think the quirky take on introducing myself and asking for help with the drains would particularly catch on; even if carrying a sugar bowl. The local yellow pages seem to have died a death with the advent of the internet. But after searching through a few websites I was not reassured by the ‘no call out fee’ offered by some, just seeing the pounds signs spinning before my eyes. I decided that the DIY option on how to locate and clear a blockage was a good place to start.
When I say I -you know I don’t mean me, exactly. Whilst I stayed at a safe distance looking out of the upstairs window, my newly appointed drainage expert, aka husband Nick, attractively dressed in protective boots, gloves and ripped old clothes, although without the peg I offered for his nose, removed the manhole covers. After poking makeshift rods along the brown piping in an attempt to restore the flow, he finally managed to hose the last of the offending articles along their way and out of our lives. Whilst I, from my vantage point, rigorously defended the drains against the verbal abuse they were receiving.
It’s not all bad; at least now we have a map of the seven manhole covers that hopscotch across the garden, joining up with one another on the other side of the house, then collecting the neighbour’s deposits and continuing off into the sunset. And to be fair to our friends, they may have just been the straw that broke the camel’s back, with so many bends in shallow drains - it’s surprising it hadn’t happened earlier.But it seemed this was part of the adventure that even the children failed to find exciting.
Teresa x
