Dambusters
In my last house, I had two loos. I preferred the downstairs one: the room was painted bright green, and when the spring sun shone throught the window just so it was a warm, cheery place.

Incrementally, and almost unnoticeably, the reservoir in the downstairs loo had been getting smaller, and, when flushed, the high-tide mark had been getting higher. Eventually, I noticed the difference, but thought little of it - the change had been very gradual - until, one evening, the pan almost overflowed. Nor was the sink draining as quickly as one might expect. Oh dear, I thought.

My Dad, being a DIY sort of person, has a set of drain rods. (In fact, he has two sets. Quite why is anybody's guess...) I lived fairly close to the 'rents at the time, so called him over.

We lifted the manhole cover outside the back door. There was a junction there. Flushing the upstairs loo, the water flowed freely down one arm of the junction. We flushed the downstairs loo; it trickled from out of another arm of the pipe. Dad began to screw together the component parts of his rods and told me to go and turn on the hot tap in the downstairs loo.

He prodded. He prodded some more.

There was movement.

There was a gurgle.

The blockage gave way; a torrent of filth sluiced its way under our feet.

You know that river of slime in Ghostbusters 2? It was something like that - but brown and much, much smellier than any film I've ever seen.

Living alone, I knew it was all mine; and, as the last dregs were washed away, I may have obtained a momentary insight into that mixture of pride and loss that parents feel when their children finally leave home for good.

Or I may have retched. Looking back, I think it was the latter.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Tue 1 Apr 2008, 10:21, 1 reply)

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(ShitBitch, Tue 1 Apr 2008, 10:58, closed)