What do you think, Engelbert?
I am swathed in about three giant towels. Not for fun. No. There is no toga party here at the Poirot Flat. I am swathed in three giant towels because I have just been forced, FORCED, to wash my hair in the kitchen sink LIKE A VICTORIAN KITCHEN MAID. Oh yes. It is true. This, ladies and gentleman, is because plumbers are the ARCH VILLAINS IN LIFE, which I am sure many of you have already deduced, but for those of you who, like Katie and I, were young and innocent in the world, I WARN YOU. They are poo. We have crap (metaphoric crap, not literal, as Katie points out - easy to make that mistake in a plumbing context) in our bath. We have crap (albeit not so much) in our bathroom sink. It is beginning to age. It is beginning to smell. And where is the fucking plumber? Where indeed. We do not know. We are at a loss.
We stare mournfully at the Christmas tree, and lament our lost drainage. It was beautiful and we took it for granted. Come back, drainage, for we love you. We love being able to bathe. We love being able to shower. WE LOVE BEING CLEAN. Yes, yes we do. Admittedly, not so keen on the washing up front, but even that too has its joys (again with the clean things), and we miss it as fervently as the others.
Anyway, yes, on a more prosaic front, rang plumbers yesterday. We will come tomorrow, said plumbers (yesterday). Now, I may not be some kind of freakish Einstein figure, but my logic leads me to deduce, on the basis of that conversation and the existing known laws of space and time, that the plumbers should have BEEN HERE TODAY. Would you not agree with me? Have I missed some huge leap forward in theoretical physics whereby this heretofore logical progression is rendered invalid? I think not, to be quite frank. By which, I am merely left to conclude that said plumbers are bastards and should be shot at dawn. No excuses.
Obviously, upshot of this is:
(a) We are probably going to have to cancel the CBB Christmas Party here on Saturday;
(b) Those of you planning to stay on Friday/Saturday nights will probably not be able to;
(c) If we can't get a plumber tomorrow, I will have to go to Kathye's after work IN ORDER TO BE CLEAN.
On the plus side, we went to the ballet (The Nutcracker) and it was fantastico. Yay for cultcha. And we had a round or two of Billy Zane's Hat, which I maintain is the most intellectually demanding of our games. We both were slightly bad-tempered on finding our drains still non-functional, although some of this was dispelled during the hair-washing section of the evening which was, not entirely surprisingly, rife with a sort of desperate hysteria. (I think Grandma would be proud. I shall write and tell her about it.) There was me, leaning over the sink... blind... non-breathing... very wet... there was Katie... pouring water over me out of a mixing bowl (pink, Homebase, very nice, very cheap, pouring spout a bonus at this particular time)... manoeuvering it so the front of my hair dipped in... Dear God. WHAT DID WE EVER DO TO DESERVE THIS?! What, what, Engelbert?
We are full of woe. Did I mention our emo gazing into the heart of the Christmas tree? Did I? Well, we are. It is very sad (not least because I have a Christmas present in a big box from Xanthe just sitting there which I am still NOT BLOODY ALLOWED TO OPEN). Please comment. Please, please comment, for you will fill our pitiful hearts with joy and love.
I leave you, stage left, weeping. Come, Engelbert. We shall depart this place.
We stare mournfully at the Christmas tree, and lament our lost drainage. It was beautiful and we took it for granted. Come back, drainage, for we love you. We love being able to bathe. We love being able to shower. WE LOVE BEING CLEAN. Yes, yes we do. Admittedly, not so keen on the washing up front, but even that too has its joys (again with the clean things), and we miss it as fervently as the others.
Anyway, yes, on a more prosaic front, rang plumbers yesterday. We will come tomorrow, said plumbers (yesterday). Now, I may not be some kind of freakish Einstein figure, but my logic leads me to deduce, on the basis of that conversation and the existing known laws of space and time, that the plumbers should have BEEN HERE TODAY. Would you not agree with me? Have I missed some huge leap forward in theoretical physics whereby this heretofore logical progression is rendered invalid? I think not, to be quite frank. By which, I am merely left to conclude that said plumbers are bastards and should be shot at dawn. No excuses.
Obviously, upshot of this is:
(a) We are probably going to have to cancel the CBB Christmas Party here on Saturday;
(b) Those of you planning to stay on Friday/Saturday nights will probably not be able to;
(c) If we can't get a plumber tomorrow, I will have to go to Kathye's after work IN ORDER TO BE CLEAN.
On the plus side, we went to the ballet (The Nutcracker) and it was fantastico. Yay for cultcha. And we had a round or two of Billy Zane's Hat, which I maintain is the most intellectually demanding of our games. We both were slightly bad-tempered on finding our drains still non-functional, although some of this was dispelled during the hair-washing section of the evening which was, not entirely surprisingly, rife with a sort of desperate hysteria. (I think Grandma would be proud. I shall write and tell her about it.) There was me, leaning over the sink... blind... non-breathing... very wet... there was Katie... pouring water over me out of a mixing bowl (pink, Homebase, very nice, very cheap, pouring spout a bonus at this particular time)... manoeuvering it so the front of my hair dipped in... Dear God. WHAT DID WE EVER DO TO DESERVE THIS?! What, what, Engelbert?
We are full of woe. Did I mention our emo gazing into the heart of the Christmas tree? Did I? Well, we are. It is very sad (not least because I have a Christmas present in a big box from Xanthe just sitting there which I am still NOT BLOODY ALLOWED TO OPEN). Please comment. Please, please comment, for you will fill our pitiful hearts with joy and love.
I leave you, stage left, weeping. Come, Engelbert. We shall depart this place.