RIP Plumbo Jumbo

Students of Chapsticks and my existence will be vaguely aware of my rather cynical take on the world of drainage.

As the recently-promoted-from-prospective-paramour-to-status-of-Miss-Chap once bemusedly asked of a chumrade - 'Why give him a drain-rod for Christmas?'
Chumrade commented - 'you haven't known him very long have you!'

My drains have been a source of both material for this blog, modern art coverings for parts of my house and a regular pensionable income for the likes of Plumbo Jumbo.

But this would now appear to be at an end.

I have recently reached into my pocket and shelled out for some horny-handed sons of the soil to re-lay my patio and block pave my drive.

No small feat this - and a Augaen stablesque task beyond the means of the local pikeys.

In the removing of the 40 tonnes of concrete and rubble form the old drive I received telephone call from my clerk of works who was somewhat excited by his find. In true Augean fashion they had discovered the source of all my drainage woes.
My main drain had collapsed a while ago. rather than a clean hygienic flow into the sewerage there was a festering pit of quicksand revealed from 'neath the concrete crust.

I arrived home at high speed and in a state of what can only be called High Dudgeon.

There was a spongey depression in the middle of what was my drive. A glance down the hades pit of a man hole cover revealed horrors beyond description. All backed up and oozing away.

There then followed a two-day long rant at insurance company, loss adjuster, drainage contractor, driveway contractor, more loss adjusters and the insurers again.

Best thing to do? I slunk off to stay on a yacht for a long weekend.

Instead of running around fretting about things in the 'danger area', I spent the time gunkholing on a boat - tiding oneself into a pool off well named Brownsea island getting 'anchored and wankered'. Instead of sitting at home surrounded by sewage, I decided to sit on a boat in a tidal pool. Surrounded by sewage.

And now a full week later I can report that all is done.

My builders? Honest and good workers.
Workmanship? Excellent - everything is done.
Drains? Flowing freely for the first time in years.

What will I write about now?

Oh - forgot - I'm off to T'Races soon. Expect essay on 'The Glory Of Debt'.

Sigismund is in Thailand. He will doubtless come back with a rash and a sore bum.

History repeating itself

It is oft said that a rummage around a cupboard indicates much of an individual and the colour of their character.
I wonder what it could mean, then, when I am forced by a necessity to delve into a cupboard that Donna da Lodga has made her own.

The cupboard beneath my sink was claimed as hers when she moved in. She also claimed other drawers and the like in my clean minimalistic kitchen of epicurianism for horrors such as Smash, instant noodles and an unearthly amount of stale cake mix.
I haven't had the occasion to delve into such a well staked out territory until the other day. I will divulge why later. Suffice to say the cupboard under the sink has been her preserve for a while and it was with a slow childlike wonderment that I cast open the door and had to move out the stocks within.

Being an organised soul it seemed natural to sort out some of the contents. I shall leave you dear reader to fathom the inner workings of the dear girl's bonce - but there was either a degree of hoarding or reflex purchasing going on.
Contents:
4 separate (and full) bottles of bleach. Various flavours.
6 Magic tree air fresheners
30 assorted spongy scourer things (all unused)
cotton and thread, velcro fastening strip
4 bottles whiffy fabric softener
3 tins spray air freshener
Bounce - one box
Persil sachets - loads
Two bottles dishwasher rinse-aid
Vanish granules - large tub
Shake and vac - two tubs

This is a girl who is clearly fearful of some cleanliness catastrophe in the very near future or one which believes we may face wartime-esque shortages and is panic buying.

Why was I under the sink?

Plumbo Jumbo needed access.

With a grim certainty of the circle line failing to work; DDL cooking and using the waste disposal following the Boy lard's attempts to plug my drains with filler had the effect predicted.
A sure as eggs is eggs I was awoken from my slumber on Sunday afternoon to behold a sink full of brown and wet not going anywhere.
I attached the plunger to the spotlight in the garden, shone the silhouette onto the clouds and waited for the pink van and chap with turbo-reamer to arrive.

It was bound to happen, sooner or later.

PS: yes I know I have been away. Been terribly busy. Slithering and work.

Hegemony

Some of my dear readers are blessed with knowing me in Real Life - as in outside the Interweb.

They know that I normally lead a life of peaceful contemplative solitude, interspersed with high adventure - but chiefly that my domestic arrangements are ones of clean simplicity as I immerse my self in the noble self discipline of an uncluttered existence.

But, alas, there is a slow creeping hegemony going on. As relentless as the tide, it marches it's fripperous way into my life, and it's sinister tendrils invade my pristine existence with the dark and malevolent forces of no-good-at-all.

It started simply. A woman moves in to my spare room - a damsel in distress and I am duty bound to assist.
But that carries risks, you see. Not only have the wine glasses been turning up on the wrong shelf - but other things arrive.

Unauthorised things.

Decorative items.

Knick-knacks.

Fripperies.

Oh, it all starts innocent enough. The special decorative olive oil thing in the kitchen.
Fabric softener for the electric laundry unit.

Then there are the bottles.

Creams oils and unguents for the bathroom, multicoloured vials containing I know not what.

I let all this go with a resigned smile - I must be accommodating and I do wish my house guest to feel at home.
But as sure as a lioness marks her scent, there are markers, cropping up.

The surest sign I noticed this morning as I took my cold shower, applied the dettol to the wire brush and set about my thinning locks with the vosene.

Candles.
In special holders.
In the Bathroom.

I stood as one thunderstruck when the terrible realisation dawned - and my soul filled with cold dread.

It Is A Slippery Slope.
The Thin End Of The Wedge.

I leaped from the shower and instantly logged on to wiki to confirm my worst fears.

A Woman's Touch.

It is only going to get worse. Now I have a particular friend visiting for tea and sandwiches on occasion, I am fairly certain that this is indeed the Thin End Of The Wedge.

A grim future awaits - scatter cushions, fabric softener, mood lighting and 'Coordinated Interiors'.

Is it any wonder us chaps have Sheds?

Plumbo Jumbo (Again)

The waste disposal doesn't like pineapple fronds.
Or rather - my drains don't like them.

Plumbo-Jumbo

Happy days are here again.
Worrying - my Dyno-rod man knows me by sound on the phone. Thank god it is all covered.
Yet again - problem caused by idiot chucking industrial grade tissue down the loo. Same as idiots chucking face wipes down the heads on the chap's yacht. It is not pretty and rubber gloves end up being used in anger.

But I can now return to a happy state. My plumbing is fixed.
Now to re-wire the dishwasher........

As one of my commentators put it this isn't gentle satire, this blog is stoic humour in the face of gritty reality.

Chapsticks...etc.

Drains

I am not sure my house project can get any worse. Drainage failures again. Nasty one though. Quick - call dyno-rod. Third time in a month!

Am I eating too much fibre?

UPDATE......
Yuk. Yuk. Yuk. Fortunately my constuction engineers saw my side and a fellow was despatched poste-haste. I am now refusing to return home until It is clean, tidy and fully functional.
I shall take rooms in South London and seek solace in liquour.
A gentleman should never have to deal with this, but being a chap-about-empire, one can face such horrors with fortitude and resolution. And rubber gloves, of course.