We have had a problem with the drain that drains the kitchen sink for several months. It keeps on overflowing and is obviously blocked. Even I, who is to DIY what Attila the Hun was to world peace can see that.
Mrs BW has applied her considerable experience in DIY matters to the problem. Solutions have been poured down the drain, increasing in strength and environmental unfriendliness all to no avail. Plumbers have been contacted, messages left, all remain unanswered.
On Thursday Mrs BW announced that that was it,enough was enough, she could do more, we had guests coming for the weekend and I as the token Alpha male in the house would have to sort it out. I looked at her pleadingly and offered to make her a cup of tea. She was having none of it. “Sort it!” she snorted and stomped off upstairs to write something acerbic and unsympathetic about husbands.
What to do?
Should I don gloves and fish about in the murky depths? Perhaps I could get some patent drain cleaner and try one last time to shift what ever it was that was causing the blockage? I did neither. Instead I did what any self respecting Alpha male does in a situation like this and got a man (or in this case a woman) into do it for me. I found her on the Internet at Plumb local. She was very efficient, arriving at nine o’clock on the dot on Good Friday, just as she said she would, and going about the unpleasant task of removing twenty years of neglect from the drain with an unnerving cheerfulness. I lurked embarrassed in the background, while the younger fledgling kept up a running commentary about what she was doing, and how disgusting it was. He refused to shut up becoming more and more graphic in his description of what the poor woman was having to sort out. In the end I had to silence him by promising to pay him an exorbitant and over the odds amount to cut the back lawn.
She got it sorted, and cheerfully announced that she had seen far worse and at least it hadn’t been the toilet. I agreed with her, and uttered a silent prayer to the gods that look after our drains. Thank heavens it wasn’t the toilet.
She rushed off to sort out a major problem with the urinals at one of the quarries, I dashed upstairs proud as punch to tell Mrs BW that I had got the drains sorted!