Good morning Negative-SoundByters! But a week away from Christmas; how do you feel? All Amazoned-out? Mince-pied to the max? Carol-sung to death? Up to your eyeballs in baubles-and-tinsel? It is remarkable (or not depending on your view of this time of year) that you can prepare – and then celebrate – Christmas without actually leaving the house. All the ingredients can now be delivered to your front door via various online outlets – including your relatives if you so choose!
When we lived in Clapham there were plenty of Christmas tree sellers at the bottom of our road. This is where I would come in. As the packhorse of the family it would be my job to carry a tree that Mrs H would choose, back up the hill. These were no ordinary trees; at least 6 foot in height and weighing a good few stone. By the time I got it home I would be covered in those little green needles mixed in with a bit of tree gum and sweating a massive bean. Then of course I would have to get it into the stand and then crawl underneath it so that I could manoeuvre it to Mrs H’s liking. Even a tree has a “best side”! Once that had been established I would beat a hasty retreat. The hired help is not allowed to dress the tree. That’s Mrs H’s job. ☺
Now that we are in Streatham, Christmas tree sellers at the bottom of our road are not that prevalent for some reason. So yes, you guessed it, Mrs H ordered it online. Van arrived. Man carried tree in. Tree inserted into stand. Job done without the packhorse having to lift a finger. I opened a Quality Street instead. That was until Mrs H discovered that the lights didn’t work and I was despatched down to Homebase to rectify the situation.
420 lights later and an electricity bill that will definitely show a spike in late December, and the tree is dressed and lit to within an inch of its life. I got to put one decoration on – the star – under Mrs H’s strict supervision of course. It was a bit of a challenge as the tree is about 10 feet high and 6 feet wide, so I found myself standing on a dining room chair leaning into it while being tethered to Mrs H. I did manage it in the end even though I got those pesky green needles stuck up my nose! I awarded myself another Quality Street for a job well done!
But enough about Yuletide, lets get on with this weeks anecdote.
Big Christmas Hugs all round.
Hoddy
Have you ever had a camera shoved up your pipe? Easy there I know what you’re thinking. I’m not talking about taking it up the port-hole….Whoah!…Stop right there! No need to take this any further a week before Baby Jesus is born! Don’t worry it’s a plumbing related story; no “x” rating as far as I can tell, unless your imagination allows you to take it there. And for an early Monday morning start that would be impressive!!
So I get home from the gym after a solid hour of unemployed recreation time. Mrs H is having an animated conversation with our builder. She turns to me and says: “Our basement is flooded”. All that magical colour that I had built up in the gym drained (get it?) in an instant. The word “flood” in a UK context means swollen rivers, breached riverbanks, submerged high streets, furniture floating in living rooms and lots of sandbags. And of course the 24-hour news coverage of lots of wet and forlorn faces. I wasn’t at the “forlorn” stage yet.
“How did this happen?” I asked. “Blocked drain” came the reply. At this point I had a mini hissy fit like some sort of slightly deranged five year-old whose been told that this year’s 800 quid Death Star Lego Model did not make it in Santa’s sack from the North Pole. Mrs H arched an eyebrow in my direction and the builder looked at me like I was that deranged five year-old. I quickly pulled my “sh6t” together.
“So what do we do?” I asked hesitantly. Flooding was not in my comfort zone. Mrs H said brusquely “I’ve called Thames Water and they’ll be here within four hours. I’m out later this afternoon so you’ll have to deal with it.” That’s Mrs H’s way of putting the ball firmly in my court. By telling me. “OK” I said. The builder nodded sagely and added helpfully: “ Don’t open the manhole cover; it smells.” I was like “dude, as if I even know where the manhole is!” (said in my head of course)
I then went back inside to inspect the basement half expecting to see my “movement” from that morning floating at the top of the basement stairs, but thankfully “flood” in this context meant about an inch-or-so of water covering the floor sans any sign of actual sewage, visible or otherwise. (Mrs H is prone to over-exaggeration at times; don’t tell her I said that!).
Thames Water eventually arrived and to be fair couldn’t have been more efficient. A guy in bright orange overalls unblocked the drain in about 30 seconds but it didn’t end there. No Sir. He then hauled out the sort of camera used by Special Forces to surreptitiously spy on terrorists (no, sorry, “insurgents”) and fed it back up my drain for signs of what might have caused the blockage. It wasn’t Osama caught in my pipes, but I did get a high definition inspection of what an 1890’s Victorian pipe looks like alongside a detailed description of how this particular pipe interacted with all the other pipes in my house. He got quite animated when he put a coloured dye down the kitchen sink only for it to appear on camera. “You see that? That’s water coming from your kitchen.” I was like “dude, seriously?” (said in my head again).
Anywho TW solved the problem and as a parting gift left me with a plastic bottle filled with a green liquid – ah yes, the disinfectant. Any guesses for who was down in the basement the following morning with the mop, yellow gloves and a bucket of disinfectant? I’ll give you a clue. He eats Quality Streets! ☺
OUT
Pic of the week:
Whitstable Bay - December 2015. Had a few festive season pints with the family in the Old Neptune. The pub is not particularly picturesque but somehow it feels like it's always been part of the landscape - that something would be missing if it wasn't there.....
