In their utilitarian wisdom, the local water company decided to replace our meter. Apparently, the old device was knackered and belonged in the Science Museum (along with what’s left of British manufacturing). A couple of big lads turned up in fetching hi viz vests and butch safety helmets (it takes a real man to carry off yellow with style). After a bit of bump and grind, the meter was replaced in a thrice. Off they trotted, job done. I decided to make a cuppa and went to the tap to fill the kettle. Up went the lever, down came the trickle. I’ve commented on our lacklustre sprinkle before but this was beyond ridiculous – more no-flow than low-flow. A quick bell to Anglian Water and, following a brief conversation about the whereabouts of my stop-cock (no idea), an emergency plumber was dispatched to my rescue. Oh God, I thought. It’ll be days of whore’s wipes, takeaways and pre-programmed poos before my stop-cock gets a good seeing to. But, no. A hour later, a handsome chappy in cargo pants turned up with wrench it hand. “Where’s your stop-cock?” he asked. “No idea,” I replied. He searched high and low and discovered the mechanism lurking behind the washing machine. As he knelt down to inspect my crevice, he flashed his own little crack. It was crowned with a tiny tuft of wispy hair. I stifled a wolf-whistle. A firm twist of the wrist and whoosh, the source of life gushed forth. Most satisfying. So, we now have sufficient water pressure to run a small hydro-electric dam. It never rains but it pours.
Talking of flashing cracks, there’s a website dedicated to the glory of builder’s bums. I have no words.
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