Drains

The blocked drain from last night refused to co-operate, despite my buying a set of cleaning rods and getting absolutely filthy and smelly in the process. The strange stuff you pull out of the dark and normally unseen bowels of your own home is rank; even after showering I was still convinced I smelt of rotten vegetables and rancid fat. It was early evening before an expert could get to me and sort it out and half past seven before we had finished with the pumping out, descaling and cctv cameras up the arse of the house domestic colonoscopy style.

But there are worse things in life than a blocked drain. It just doesn’t feel that way when you’ve got your arm down one up to the elbow when you had promised yourself an afternoon (at least) of wandering down the South Bank in the sunshine.

My big gaff today was taking delivery of an electric griddle which looked ordinary enough on Amazon but is as big as a desk and as heavy as small car. It cooks very well but I should probably have sent it back; maybe I will use it to set up a street food stall outside our house. Or just use it as a vegan barbecue.

I did appoint a new cleaner today. Seems very nice. And heroic; four children between the ages of 3 and 14. Probably cleans other people’s houses for a break.

The flower pot men adorn the wall of the local primary school. I had a brief excursion with Margaret Atwood to the village pub for a drink and a bowl of chips whilst reading The Handmaids Tale, and met them on the way home. Their insane smiles cheered me up. Actually I laughed out loud. So it’s not all bad.