I had a refreshing encounter with a plumber dude this morning.
Refreshing because (a) he was amenable to doing some work without the sharp intake of breath which normally accompanies a contractor’s commencement of laborious activity but mostly because (b) he whipped out an iPhone which quite frankly looked like it had been used to detonate a landmine.
The screen was cracked and fissured so much that activating any of the apps must have felt akin to caressing Bernard Cribbins’ whiskery jowls. There were paint spatters. There were oily skid marks. There were questionable potholes that may or may not have been caused by high impacts on the quantum scale. Of course, the allusion to Bernard Cribbins breaks down completely at this point.
It was a well used, possibly well loved, definitely not well looked after device.
And that pleased me.
It pleased me because the thought occurred that too often these days we lavish such love and status onto our electronic gadgetry that the merest hairline scratch on a touchscreen, the merest infinitesimal microdot of grit under a plasticoating and we have to head straight out to the vendor to buy a new one. A brand new one because the old one has now been sullied and besmirched. Part of the joy of having it and showing it off is showing it off in prime brand spanking new condition. The tiniest chip will render it second-rate and give it the appearance of being second-hand and, worse still, make it appear as if the device is nose-diving already off the cliff of contemporality and pitching itself useless-face first into the pit of obsolescence.
It was plain that what mattered to the plumber chappy was not the appearance of the device and, therefore not the status the device could confer onto him... but that the device still worked. It was functional. The touchscreen still worked. He could make still calls. Access his apps. Troll on Twitter. Download dodgy films from the internet.
In his own small way he was doing his bit for the environment (if not for the economy). He was, if not mending and making do, then at the very least just making do.
And this to me seems a good way to go. How many of us as we pass through life cast sneering glances and sneerier comments towards battered vehicles we see out and about on the roads? Battered computers being used? Battered bags carried around? Battered clothes being worn?
If they still work and are fit for purpose we should use them. They’ve gobbled up God knows how many of Earth’s resources just by being made. Let’s get our money’s worth before we buy yet more gadgetry and add to the resource debt that is currently mounting up against us.
Let’s use things up and wear them out. It is the highest honour we can afford anything that we create. To use a tool until it cannot be used anymore.
To this end then, despite the holes in the back of my underpants I am going to continue to wash and wear them. The front bit is fine. The hammock effect is uncompromised. I’m going to maintain their functional status for the long haul.
We shall go on together until the end. Or at least until my dangly bits go into freefall.
And I defy any of you to tell me I’m wrong.
Showing posts with label plumbers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label plumbers. Show all posts
Thursday, January 24, 2013
Saturday, November 05, 2011
Major Infarction And General Anaesthetic
So my poorly hot water heater was given its pre-op clean Tuesday evening. The dust was scrubbed off. The old bottles of Domestos and Oilatum were removed from the top. The blood spatter patterns were removed from the sides (don’t ask). All in preparation for Dr Plumb to delve into its coppery innards Wednesday morning.
I told work I’d be in late. I needed to be on hand to wipe my water heater’s brow and whisper reassurances into its metallic ears as the engineer invaded it’s inner sanctum with a screwdriver and a rolled up copy of The Sun.
As it was the operation was cancelled. After an hour of fruitless waiting I rang Sureway to be told by the receptionist that Dr Plumb’s previous patient was currently dying on an operating table somewhere in Suburbville and would take a lot longer to resuscitate. I couldn’t afford to lose yet more time at work so had to reschedule the op for the next day. Thursday at 4pm.
Typical bloody NHS.
As it was the Dr Fixit who attended on Thursday was worth the wait. If we were fearing a greasy-handed butcher who would leave foreign objects afloat in my water heater’s tender abdomen (I believe it’s called retention) I was wrong. We had a lovely young doctor who prepped and cleaned the operating table beforehand and even swept up the rusty entrails afterwards too. It was like the NHS had been unable to attend and had sent BUPA instead.
He quickly ascertained the possible sources of the problem: either a faulty valve (replacement would be £170 – may as well get a new water heater if this was the case) or a worn diaphragm.
It proved to be the latter. Much cheaper to replace and very reassuring to know that my water heater has been indulging in safe sex for all these years without me knowing about it. Though it does explain why our shower unit always looks so perky in the mornings.
We now have the pitter-patter of hot water running throughout the house once more. Father and water heater are both doing well.
Thank you all for your get well cards, your flowers and your chocolates. They were much appreciated though very much more imagined.
I can now get myself up to my neck in hot water once again (in fact I must remember to tell this to my wife: she’ll be thrilled).
I told work I’d be in late. I needed to be on hand to wipe my water heater’s brow and whisper reassurances into its metallic ears as the engineer invaded it’s inner sanctum with a screwdriver and a rolled up copy of The Sun.
As it was the operation was cancelled. After an hour of fruitless waiting I rang Sureway to be told by the receptionist that Dr Plumb’s previous patient was currently dying on an operating table somewhere in Suburbville and would take a lot longer to resuscitate. I couldn’t afford to lose yet more time at work so had to reschedule the op for the next day. Thursday at 4pm.
Typical bloody NHS.
As it was the Dr Fixit who attended on Thursday was worth the wait. If we were fearing a greasy-handed butcher who would leave foreign objects afloat in my water heater’s tender abdomen (I believe it’s called retention) I was wrong. We had a lovely young doctor who prepped and cleaned the operating table beforehand and even swept up the rusty entrails afterwards too. It was like the NHS had been unable to attend and had sent BUPA instead.
He quickly ascertained the possible sources of the problem: either a faulty valve (replacement would be £170 – may as well get a new water heater if this was the case) or a worn diaphragm.
It proved to be the latter. Much cheaper to replace and very reassuring to know that my water heater has been indulging in safe sex for all these years without me knowing about it. Though it does explain why our shower unit always looks so perky in the mornings.
We now have the pitter-patter of hot water running throughout the house once more. Father and water heater are both doing well.
Thank you all for your get well cards, your flowers and your chocolates. They were much appreciated though very much more imagined.
I can now get myself up to my neck in hot water once again (in fact I must remember to tell this to my wife: she’ll be thrilled).
Monday, October 31, 2011
Halloween Boiler
I say “boiler” but actually the Sureway Heating operative I spoke to on the telephone rather tartly informed me that what I actually have is a water heater not a boiler.
Whatever it is the damn things is haunted or possessed or has had a section of its metallic intestines pulled through into an inter-dimensional wormhole because it is just not functioning as it should.
In fact it isn’t even functioning as the laws of physics say it should and, you have to admit, it’s got to have a hefty demon on its shoulders to mess with Professor Brian Cox.
Now, I’m no heating / plumbing engineer, but I know that basically what I have in the bathroom is a big heater thing that heats up the hot water passing through it and then transports it to various outlets around the house via a couple of pipes. We don’t have many outlets. Just two sets in the bathroom and one set downstairs. I live in a 3 bedroomed semi not Longleat House after all.
So. In simple terms:
Heater >> short expanse of pipework >> taps.
An elegant little flowchart. Not much room for error.
And yet things are not right.
We have hot water upstairs. The pilot light is on. The water heater blazes inside like a miniature furnace whenever the hot taps are turned to the full-on position.
But we have no hot water downstairs. None at all. The hot tap is turned on, the heater blazes, water gushes through the pipes but it ain’t (even half) hot (mum). It’s stone cold.
How can this be? How can we have hot water upstairs but not downstairs when all the pipes are fed from the same heater? It’s not like the pipes downstairs are several kilometres longer than the ones upstairs to give the water time to cool down. They don’t divert our water through Siberia or Antarctica on its way to the kitchen tap. Where is our hot water going?
The only change of circumstance that has occurred recently has been the arrival of a new bunch of students next door but they look rather sweet and not the type to siphon of hot water illegally from their neighbours. Borrow a couple of herbal tea bags, yes. Nick hot water, no. And besides. As we all know, students and baths / washing up / clothes washing do not mix. The only thing they know to do with hot water is to shove it into a Pot Noodle. And there isn’t a Pot Noodle hunger big enough to warrant the amount of hot water that has gone missing from my house.
So I’ve rung the experts. The guy I spoke to sounded a little perturbed by the problem and is going to send his best man out this week to take a look at it. OK. OK. He’s going to send a man out to look at it. And then we shall see what we shall see.
In the meantime, I’m breaking out the garlic and the holy water and calling a priest.
Our hot water heater has plainly got bad juju.
Whatever it is the damn things is haunted or possessed or has had a section of its metallic intestines pulled through into an inter-dimensional wormhole because it is just not functioning as it should.
In fact it isn’t even functioning as the laws of physics say it should and, you have to admit, it’s got to have a hefty demon on its shoulders to mess with Professor Brian Cox.
Now, I’m no heating / plumbing engineer, but I know that basically what I have in the bathroom is a big heater thing that heats up the hot water passing through it and then transports it to various outlets around the house via a couple of pipes. We don’t have many outlets. Just two sets in the bathroom and one set downstairs. I live in a 3 bedroomed semi not Longleat House after all.
So. In simple terms:
Heater >> short expanse of pipework >> taps.
An elegant little flowchart. Not much room for error.
And yet things are not right.
We have hot water upstairs. The pilot light is on. The water heater blazes inside like a miniature furnace whenever the hot taps are turned to the full-on position.
But we have no hot water downstairs. None at all. The hot tap is turned on, the heater blazes, water gushes through the pipes but it ain’t (even half) hot (mum). It’s stone cold.
How can this be? How can we have hot water upstairs but not downstairs when all the pipes are fed from the same heater? It’s not like the pipes downstairs are several kilometres longer than the ones upstairs to give the water time to cool down. They don’t divert our water through Siberia or Antarctica on its way to the kitchen tap. Where is our hot water going?
The only change of circumstance that has occurred recently has been the arrival of a new bunch of students next door but they look rather sweet and not the type to siphon of hot water illegally from their neighbours. Borrow a couple of herbal tea bags, yes. Nick hot water, no. And besides. As we all know, students and baths / washing up / clothes washing do not mix. The only thing they know to do with hot water is to shove it into a Pot Noodle. And there isn’t a Pot Noodle hunger big enough to warrant the amount of hot water that has gone missing from my house.
So I’ve rung the experts. The guy I spoke to sounded a little perturbed by the problem and is going to send his best man out this week to take a look at it. OK. OK. He’s going to send a man out to look at it. And then we shall see what we shall see.
In the meantime, I’m breaking out the garlic and the holy water and calling a priest.
Our hot water heater has plainly got bad juju.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Could Dave Be The One?
The search has been long.
There have been times when I have given up hope, when my heart has cried out, “just let this foolish hope go, learn to live without it – why put yourself through the pain of rejection time and time again?”
But the call, that human call of one to another, of flesh to flesh, is strong and unquenchable. So you lick your wounds. You dust yourself down. You gird your loins and throw yourself back into the market place.
When I first started looking I had a few promising bites, a few responses that I confess I built up too high. Far too quickly I pinned my entire future happiness on them. Invested far too much emotional energy.
To a man they all let me down. They didn’t return my calls. They didn’t answer the phone. Some, the worst of them, faked interest, even went so far as to make plans with me, describing how they thought the liaison would go... and then left me hanging. They disappeared. Took off with someone else. Allowed themselves to be bought by a higher bidder.
I confess I briefly considered a session of DIY. There’s no shame in it. We’ve all done it at some point I’m sure. But – let’s be truthful here – it’s just not as good as when someone else does it for you. When you have the right person on hand to manipulate the right parts. Who will fit you in and make sure all the pipe work connects properly.
So I held out for Mr Right. Held myself firm through the long, dark, cold nights of rejection.
And finally it paid off. Finally I found him.
He was advertising in the local paper. Just a small ad but I saw that as a good sign; a sign that he was as hungry for what I had to offer as I was to give it. His name was Dave. An honest name if ever there was one. I rang him and told him my needs, my voice a-tremble and breathy – how many times had I reached this stage in the past only to be ultimately spurned?!
He said he’d call round. I tried to take it with a pinch of salt, to not get my hopes up lest they be dashed again. But no. He arrived. On time. On the day and time that he said he would. A man of his word.
Finally my heart dared to hope.
He listened to my wants, my desires. He didn’t turn away in disgust or contempt. He could do all that I wanted. He priced it all up. The full service. It was just right. Affordable but no so that I’d feel too cheapened by the transaction.
I agreed. We shook hands. The rendezvous has been set for next week.
The relationship is established!
And now my dear, dear reader my heart is now joyous where once it was bereft. My soul sings where once it did cry. The long search is over. A plumber has at last been engaged. My taps and my leaky bath are to be saved!
Hallelujah!
There have been times when I have given up hope, when my heart has cried out, “just let this foolish hope go, learn to live without it – why put yourself through the pain of rejection time and time again?”
But the call, that human call of one to another, of flesh to flesh, is strong and unquenchable. So you lick your wounds. You dust yourself down. You gird your loins and throw yourself back into the market place.
When I first started looking I had a few promising bites, a few responses that I confess I built up too high. Far too quickly I pinned my entire future happiness on them. Invested far too much emotional energy.
To a man they all let me down. They didn’t return my calls. They didn’t answer the phone. Some, the worst of them, faked interest, even went so far as to make plans with me, describing how they thought the liaison would go... and then left me hanging. They disappeared. Took off with someone else. Allowed themselves to be bought by a higher bidder.
I confess I briefly considered a session of DIY. There’s no shame in it. We’ve all done it at some point I’m sure. But – let’s be truthful here – it’s just not as good as when someone else does it for you. When you have the right person on hand to manipulate the right parts. Who will fit you in and make sure all the pipe work connects properly.
So I held out for Mr Right. Held myself firm through the long, dark, cold nights of rejection.
And finally it paid off. Finally I found him.
He was advertising in the local paper. Just a small ad but I saw that as a good sign; a sign that he was as hungry for what I had to offer as I was to give it. His name was Dave. An honest name if ever there was one. I rang him and told him my needs, my voice a-tremble and breathy – how many times had I reached this stage in the past only to be ultimately spurned?!
He said he’d call round. I tried to take it with a pinch of salt, to not get my hopes up lest they be dashed again. But no. He arrived. On time. On the day and time that he said he would. A man of his word.
Finally my heart dared to hope.
He listened to my wants, my desires. He didn’t turn away in disgust or contempt. He could do all that I wanted. He priced it all up. The full service. It was just right. Affordable but no so that I’d feel too cheapened by the transaction.
I agreed. We shook hands. The rendezvous has been set for next week.
The relationship is established!
And now my dear, dear reader my heart is now joyous where once it was bereft. My soul sings where once it did cry. The long search is over. A plumber has at last been engaged. My taps and my leaky bath are to be saved!
Hallelujah!
Thursday, September 09, 2010
Baps, Craps & Taps
Now of course it’s interesting to see which countries people are reading your blog from, which web sites are referring readers to your carefully crafted missives but really what any self respecting blogster / webster wants to know is what people are searching for when Google throws up your pearly white blog before their swinish eyes.
I was imaging some high falutin’ search terms like “leamington novelist”, “people’s poet” or “literary giant”.
But no.
People are coming to my blog via the following keywords:
alice roberts skinny dipping
"debbie does dallas" "2 disc" dvd
naughty why men don’t skinny dip
plumbing"blogspot.com"
And for some strange reason:
aid for constipation in dogs
Basically, as the title of this post suggests, baps, craps and taps.
In fact, the search terms that make reference to Alice Roberts outnumber everything else by an alarming amount and are always and inevitably combined with the words “skinny dipping” or “in a pool naked”. Although one dyslexic Alice Roberts fan wanted to see her skinny diping – not quite sure what that involves but it plainly requires the p to be taken.
It doesn’t take a brainiac to deduce that Alice Roberts is a popular girl and my bloggerly admiration for her drives a huge audience my way with not much effort on my part at all. Hence I’m mentioning her a lot in this post and even posting a picture of her above, complete reprobate and media whore that I am. Come and get her guys; here she is!
So. To conclude. Nobody is here for the fine writing, for elucidation, for philosophizing of the most noble and high minded kind. You’re here for the sex, the innuendo, the eye candy and the canine version of Imodium.
I’m so glad to be of service.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
The Amityville Plumber
Dark forces are at work in my house.
The shadows bend outward from the corners as if stretching, reaching for additional purchase to haul themselves further into the mortal world.
Upstairs in an inexplicably empty room flies seem to multiply unnaturally and mither themselves to the point of insanity against a solitary window that is impossible to open. So many of them, swarming, crawling, buzzing like infernal machines, that they block out the light of the sun.
In fact we sent a priest upstairs to sort that room out with a blessing a couple of weeks ago and he still hasn’t come down. Come to think of it I found his dog collar on the stairs a few days after his arrival and it had teeth marks in it.
And don’t talk to me about our basement.
What basement? Yeah, that’s what I mean. We didn’t have one when we first moved into the house but suddenly we do and it seems to have a strange effect on all who venture into it. Their eyes turn red, their teeth become large and pointy and they start talking in a slightly unhinged but manly baritone... something about the gateway to hell.
Now, either my house is built on the site of an old McDonald’s Drive-thru or something truly nefarious is occurring.
It is the only thing I can think of to explain the sheer impossibility of obtaining any damned contractors to come round and perform the multitude of small jobs that are currently hampering my enjoyment of my family home.
I wrote a while ago about my difficulties in obtaining a plumber. I’ve approached others since then and they have all given me the same excuse: yes, I am interested but can’t come round now to look at the job, I will call you on such and such a day and arrange a visit. Right. So such and such a day arrives and they don’t call so I call them back and get the same excuse repeated to me and the same thing happens yet again.
And then there are the TV aerial installers. I tried to engage one of those too. I left several messages on the company phone. Nobody has rung me back. It’s £159 to have a new aerial installed apparently. Not huge money, I know, but it is the price they have put on it themselves. I’m willing to pay it. But for some reason they don’t want to come round to my house to earn it.
And now I have to engage someone to try and repair our cooker because another sausage-based inferno has put paid to the dials on the fascia and the cooling fan has lost the ability to turn itself off.
My heart balks at the mere thought of having to kick off yet another round of polite enquiries only to be given the finger / the hand / the cold shoulder / the thank you but no thank you / the brush off.
Christ. The only person who comes round regularly and without fail to my house is bloody Wayne the window cleaner. You remember him? Wayne the bloody nutcase, commie hating, Christian platitude spouting, crusade revivalist with a grudge against all western world bankers. Every month he comes round to clean my windows because I’m too much of a coward to tell him to take his chamois and his bucket and his ladder and his hordes of demonic flies and sod off.
Ooh.
Demonic flies.
You don’t think he might be, you know, putting some voodoo on my house or something? Some kind of weird window cleaning juju?
*Gulp*
Anybody know a good priest? Shit. Hold on a minute; I’ve already tried that.
Help!
The shadows bend outward from the corners as if stretching, reaching for additional purchase to haul themselves further into the mortal world.
Upstairs in an inexplicably empty room flies seem to multiply unnaturally and mither themselves to the point of insanity against a solitary window that is impossible to open. So many of them, swarming, crawling, buzzing like infernal machines, that they block out the light of the sun.
In fact we sent a priest upstairs to sort that room out with a blessing a couple of weeks ago and he still hasn’t come down. Come to think of it I found his dog collar on the stairs a few days after his arrival and it had teeth marks in it.
And don’t talk to me about our basement.
What basement? Yeah, that’s what I mean. We didn’t have one when we first moved into the house but suddenly we do and it seems to have a strange effect on all who venture into it. Their eyes turn red, their teeth become large and pointy and they start talking in a slightly unhinged but manly baritone... something about the gateway to hell.
Now, either my house is built on the site of an old McDonald’s Drive-thru or something truly nefarious is occurring.
It is the only thing I can think of to explain the sheer impossibility of obtaining any damned contractors to come round and perform the multitude of small jobs that are currently hampering my enjoyment of my family home.
I wrote a while ago about my difficulties in obtaining a plumber. I’ve approached others since then and they have all given me the same excuse: yes, I am interested but can’t come round now to look at the job, I will call you on such and such a day and arrange a visit. Right. So such and such a day arrives and they don’t call so I call them back and get the same excuse repeated to me and the same thing happens yet again.
And then there are the TV aerial installers. I tried to engage one of those too. I left several messages on the company phone. Nobody has rung me back. It’s £159 to have a new aerial installed apparently. Not huge money, I know, but it is the price they have put on it themselves. I’m willing to pay it. But for some reason they don’t want to come round to my house to earn it.
And now I have to engage someone to try and repair our cooker because another sausage-based inferno has put paid to the dials on the fascia and the cooling fan has lost the ability to turn itself off.
My heart balks at the mere thought of having to kick off yet another round of polite enquiries only to be given the finger / the hand / the cold shoulder / the thank you but no thank you / the brush off.
Christ. The only person who comes round regularly and without fail to my house is bloody Wayne the window cleaner. You remember him? Wayne the bloody nutcase, commie hating, Christian platitude spouting, crusade revivalist with a grudge against all western world bankers. Every month he comes round to clean my windows because I’m too much of a coward to tell him to take his chamois and his bucket and his ladder and his hordes of demonic flies and sod off.
Ooh.
Demonic flies.
You don’t think he might be, you know, putting some voodoo on my house or something? Some kind of weird window cleaning juju?
*Gulp*
Anybody know a good priest? Shit. Hold on a minute; I’ve already tried that.
Help!
Monday, July 19, 2010
You Plumb!
Do people not want work? With the country selling its kidneys for rent money, do people not want to earn a bit of cash?
We have a small list of plumbing jobs in my house. Nothing too onerous: a couple of taps that don’t work properly, a leaky sink and a leaky shower, a wonky shower head that refuses to stay in position (so one must shower doing the Hitler salute to keep it over one’s head)... all stuff that a good plumber could sort out in an hour or two. A nice little earner in fact.
But do you think I can commission someone to do the work?!
The first thing I did was to pose the question on my work’s intranet: can anybody recommend a good, reasonably priced plumber?
The response to this was good. Three recommendations plopped into my inbox. Three likely lads championed by satisfied customers.
I rang all of them. All bar one answered and set a time to come round the ol’ gaffe last weekend, take a look and give a quote. I left a phone message with the third and left it at that.
The weekend came but the two plumbers didn’t. No show. Bleeding great. The third one, however, picked up his phone message and rang me back. This looked more promising. He attended within the hour, quoted £80 (I bit his hand off) and said he’d formalize the quote on Monday and get in touch to make arrangements to come and do the job.
Monday came and went. Nothing. Nadda.
OK. Maybe he was busy. Had a rush job on. A little old lady with her rheumatoid arthritic toe jammed up her combi tap. These things happen.
A week later though and the plumber drought continues. Not a sign. Not a dickie-bird. And I’m not sure I can be bothered to chase any of these jokers up.
If they don’t want the work I’m not sure I want to give them my money in the first place.
They can all go and shove their heads down the nearest toilet. After all, some might say that is an occupational hazard (when they actually do their jobs, that is).
We have a small list of plumbing jobs in my house. Nothing too onerous: a couple of taps that don’t work properly, a leaky sink and a leaky shower, a wonky shower head that refuses to stay in position (so one must shower doing the Hitler salute to keep it over one’s head)... all stuff that a good plumber could sort out in an hour or two. A nice little earner in fact.
But do you think I can commission someone to do the work?!
The first thing I did was to pose the question on my work’s intranet: can anybody recommend a good, reasonably priced plumber?
The response to this was good. Three recommendations plopped into my inbox. Three likely lads championed by satisfied customers.
I rang all of them. All bar one answered and set a time to come round the ol’ gaffe last weekend, take a look and give a quote. I left a phone message with the third and left it at that.
The weekend came but the two plumbers didn’t. No show. Bleeding great. The third one, however, picked up his phone message and rang me back. This looked more promising. He attended within the hour, quoted £80 (I bit his hand off) and said he’d formalize the quote on Monday and get in touch to make arrangements to come and do the job.
Monday came and went. Nothing. Nadda.
OK. Maybe he was busy. Had a rush job on. A little old lady with her rheumatoid arthritic toe jammed up her combi tap. These things happen.
A week later though and the plumber drought continues. Not a sign. Not a dickie-bird. And I’m not sure I can be bothered to chase any of these jokers up.
If they don’t want the work I’m not sure I want to give them my money in the first place.
They can all go and shove their heads down the nearest toilet. After all, some might say that is an occupational hazard (when they actually do their jobs, that is).
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)