Jesus wept, I've had a mother fucker of a couple of days and I need a cigarette so bad that I can't quite remember why I've given up. Was it a good reason? I hope so...
Awoke yesterday morning to find a leak in my Handbag Room (yes, I have a Handbag Room in my house, doesn't everyone? *blinks*). There was a huge wet patch on the ceiling and water was coming through the light fitting. Joy!
Cue mild panic, crying and hair pulling.
It was one of those situations when it takes you a couple of moments to decide what to do, so there I was, staring at this water thinking 'WHAT THE FUCK??!! Should I call 999?'
My first thought, of course, was for the safety of the handbags and quickly moved them all to my bedroom, where they would be safe.
I then began to think a little more clearly and called the insurance company instead, who despatched a plumber. He was round within an hour and quite possibly one of the moodiest men I have ever had the misfortune of letting in my house (although not *the* moodiest, it pains me to say).
Clambering into the loft, all I heard was a muffled 'Jesus Christ!'
Cue more panic, crying and now wailing.
What was it? Was the ceiling about to collapse? Had the roof blown off in the night and I hadn't noticed? Was it a dead body? Were there a family of gypsies squatting in my loft?
No, the cold water tank had overflowed. A minor problem that took less than 15 mins to resolve and will cause little or no damage. All I have to do is let the ceiling dry out and all will be well again.
So not really something that warranted such a reaction.
I'd hate to live with the man. 'Jesus Christ there's something on my foot! No wait, it's just a sock...'
Cunt.
Today hasn't been much better. This morning I awoke to the toilet not flushing. Joy!
Called the moody plumber, who couldn't come around until 2pm so I told him not to bother (not wise I know, but it was the lack of nicotine talking and I'd rather die than admit that I need a man. Reason number 147 why I will die alone...)
So I decided to fix it myself.
Lifting the lid off the cistern (I think that's what it's called) I looked into the tank and quickly realised that without seeing a button that said 'Press here to fix', I had no fucking idea what I was doing.
But being the logical soul that I am (translation: I more or less told the plumber to get fucked so had no other choice), I went to the toilet downstairs to compare the two.
Taking a photo on my phone (technology 'eh?) I went back upstairs and realised what the problem was: the tank wasn't filling up with water.
Locating the pipe, I turned the head to get the water running and the head promptly fell off and water started gushing *everywhere*!
Cue blind panic, screaming and nausea at being doused in toilet water.
After struggling with it for a bit, I not only got the water to stop gushing but I only fucking fixed the thing! Don't ask me *how* I just did!
Get me, I'm Handy Andy! Can I call myself a plumber now?
-------------
Awoke yesterday morning to find a leak in my Handbag Room (yes, I have a Handbag Room in my house, doesn't everyone? *blinks*). There was a huge wet patch on the ceiling and water was coming through the light fitting. Joy!Cue mild panic, crying and hair pulling.
It was one of those situations when it takes you a couple of moments to decide what to do, so there I was, staring at this water thinking 'WHAT THE FUCK??!! Should I call 999?'
My first thought, of course, was for the safety of the handbags and quickly moved them all to my bedroom, where they would be safe.I then began to think a little more clearly and called the insurance company instead, who despatched a plumber. He was round within an hour and quite possibly one of the moodiest men I have ever had the misfortune of letting in my house (although not *the* moodiest, it pains me to say).
Clambering into the loft, all I heard was a muffled 'Jesus Christ!'
Cue more panic, crying and now wailing.
What was it? Was the ceiling about to collapse? Had the roof blown off in the night and I hadn't noticed? Was it a dead body? Were there a family of gypsies squatting in my loft?
No, the cold water tank had overflowed. A minor problem that took less than 15 mins to resolve and will cause little or no damage. All I have to do is let the ceiling dry out and all will be well again.
So not really something that warranted such a reaction.
I'd hate to live with the man. 'Jesus Christ there's something on my foot! No wait, it's just a sock...'
Cunt.
Today hasn't been much better. This morning I awoke to the toilet not flushing. Joy!
Called the moody plumber, who couldn't come around until 2pm so I told him not to bother (not wise I know, but it was the lack of nicotine talking and I'd rather die than admit that I need a man. Reason number 147 why I will die alone...)
So I decided to fix it myself.
Lifting the lid off the cistern (I think that's what it's called) I looked into the tank and quickly realised that without seeing a button that said 'Press here to fix', I had no fucking idea what I was doing.
But being the logical soul that I am (translation: I more or less told the plumber to get fucked so had no other choice), I went to the toilet downstairs to compare the two.
Taking a photo on my phone (technology 'eh?) I went back upstairs and realised what the problem was: the tank wasn't filling up with water.
Locating the pipe, I turned the head to get the water running and the head promptly fell off and water started gushing *everywhere*!
Cue blind panic, screaming and nausea at being doused in toilet water.
After struggling with it for a bit, I not only got the water to stop gushing but I only fucking fixed the thing! Don't ask me *how* I just did!
Get me, I'm Handy Andy! Can I call myself a plumber now?
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