THE pipes, the pipes are calling. Or rather I am calling the pipes. And what am I calling them, readers? Names, that’s what I am calling them.
And why would I do such a thing? Because one of them burst, that’s why. At least I thought it did.
Here’s the whole morally instructive story for you to study and ponder over. One afternoon towards teatime, I was looking for something under the sink, where were stored sundry items such as cloths, black bags, tea-towels, the iron, medicines, one hat, a guide to the Lake District, Christmas cards, bottles of vitamins, bank statements, interesting pebbles, and so forth; the usual, in other words.
In a surprise development, I couldn’t find what I was looking for – I can honestly say that, in my entire life, I have never found anything – and so I thought it might help matters if I threw the displaced iron back among the bags and so forth.
Then … all hell broke loose. And a watery hell at that. Water sprouted forth from the pipe, and the interesting thing was my reaction. It was not good. I like to think of myself as laid back. Indeed, invited once (and never again) to take a somewhat regimented class through some drills, I was afterwards derisively compared by our teacher to Sergeant Wilson out of Dad’s Army.
However, on this occasion, I was more like Lance-Corporal Jones. Don’t panic! But I did. I actually shouted, “Help me!”, adding the important point of information: “I don’t know what to do!”
But there was no one to hear and, as the water started to flood the carpet, it was the people downstairs I was worried about. They’d just moved in. I wasn’t so much concerned about their feelings as the large repair bill they might hand me.
I threw every towel and cloth I could find at the pipe but, slowly, was engulfed by despair, embodying the words of Private Frazer: “Wur doomed, ah tell ye!”
A voice – possibly God’s, if plumbing comes under his purview – whispered in my ear: “Stopcock! Find the stopcock!” But this only plunged me into further despair, as everyone knows the dictionary definition of stopcock: “Something that no one can ever find.”
However, I did find a red lever, which I turned, whereupon the spouting water stopped. By now it was gone 5pm. Instead of phoning, as one might have done in the past, I went online to mybuilder.com, explained my predicament and, within minutes, a local plumber had replied and said he could come out next morning.
All this time, I assumed the iron must have broken the pipe but I could see no damage and, slowly, it dawned on me that it must have dislodged the lever. A bit embarrassing, and I feared yet another experience in which a tradesman snorts at me derisively.
But the chap who came out was a most excellent and educated young man, who replaced a valve or some such and officially declared the emergency over. There was no damage downstairs, but there was to my self-esteem as I recalled my lack of composure and the way I’d panted like a terrified hart.
In telling you this story, I trust you will learn the lesson thereof: never throw irons about willy-nilly.
