My week: Shitgate & Fuck Fuck Fuck
I was really looking forward to Friday 11th October. Me old mate had hit 50 and a small gathering of us were having a dinner party to celebrate. I was to bake a cake.
Wednesday 9th October – Mother arrived from France. She came bearing gifts from the plane for the girls and a rather nice bottle of red for me wrapped in her knickers. I peeled them off the bottle and guzzled greedily. She was not amused.
Thursday 10th was baking day and Mother’s hospital appointment. We wiped down her mobility frame and set forth to purchase chocolate for the cake and then onto the hospital for her appointment. For each 10 steps I took on that long and weary walk, Mother had moved an inch. The tedious journey to the traffic lights (100 yards from my home) took forever. As we waited for the Red man to turn Green I decided to ask Mother to ‘Trot On’ as no cars were coming. A little game I like to do is then, as we are in the middle of the road, announce a lorry is coming. To which Mother is suddenly able to fling her mobility aid aside and gallop to the pavement. She was not amused, and we carried on our long long walk into Henley. We purchased the baking ingredients and walked home. I had the boiler repair coming. I needed to bake a cake. And Mother had an appointment at the hospital. A lot to do in little time. As I melted the chocolate into the pan I could hear the clicking of Mother’s knitting needles. After announcing she had given up knitting – she had decided to start again, and was busily knitting hats for the kids. Bobble hats. Pink and Green. I said nothing.
The cake was baked. Mother’s ticker was in good order. The boiler was working. All was good apart from the sink in the downstairs toilet. For some strange reason the water was not going anywhere. It seemed we had a blockage somewhere. I poked a bit but to no avail. I thought no more of it. I had a snifter. And another. And one for luck.
Friday 11th
The sink was still blocked. I secretly blamed Mother; she had probably thrown a tea bag down there or something. I cursed under my breath as I unscrewed a pipe thing under the sink and was suddenly wading in soapy stinky water. I ran the tap, it was still fecking blocked. Ben & Holly was on full volume. The kids were on a sugar high. Carolyn was on a business call. I still hadn’t done the icing on the cake. And somebody was at the front door. It was Lou, my oldest mate. We had arranged to go swimming. Fuck Fuck Fuck.
We both had our black costumes under our clothes. Lou’s was old, so old it was transparent. She had somehow burnt it and the front was all shrivelled up. Her mane of red hair sat upon her head, on top a bright red lycra bathing hat.
My costume was two sizes too small. Sacks of fat flowed under my armpit, my belly and the tops of my legs. I walked like John Wayne. My camel hoof protruding. My hair was also stacked on my head. On top, a bright green lycra bathing hat.
Our Glasses were off. We were as blind as bats as we hobbled over to the pool. My heart leapt as Lou skidded and nearly dived head first into the shallow end. I grabbed her arm and we helped each other walk into the pool, like a couple of aged grannies. We swam and chatted, and then as we took in water, we coughed and spluttered and had to stop on occasions in case we drowned.
At the house I was still fiddling with the ruddy sink. The cake was finished. Mother and Carolyn were upstairs bathing the girls. I had 2 hours before party time.
It sounded like somebody had the runs. It was coming from the downstairs toilet. I slowly walked towards the door and pulled it open. The seat was violently tapping until suddenly it shot open and mountain of shit spewed out of the toilet covering the entire toilet area and into the children’s playroom. It was never ending.
I panicked. I screamed my fecking head off – Carolyn came running down. Shit and toilet paper was still coming out of the toilet. The carpet was saturated. The stench so vile I retched. The cats shot thru their cat flaps into the garden. I moved the cake. Carolyn was screaming for me to call somebody. Who? Father Fucking Christmas? We called our builder Jules. God knows why. He told us to call Dynorod.
Carolyn donned her Hunters and waded thru the sea of shit and saved the kids toys. I poured a glass of wine. Mother was still upstairs with the kids, unaware that downstairs had become a sea of faeces!
Wayne arrived 2 hours later. He had never seen anything like it before and set about bring his rods thru the house. He stuck them in the pipes. This didn’t work. He popped a camera into the pipes and announced we were fucked. By this time I wanted to drop kick Wayne out of the friggin window. I had screaming kids. A screaming wife. Unhappy cats. A mother totally unaware of what is happening and a dinner to go to. And a house stinking of shit. I needed help. NOW.
Wayne unblocked the pipes. As we argued whose fault it was, and both agreed it was the previous occupiers of the house, Wayne announced the pipes were blocked by BABY WIPES.
We looked away sheepishly and I rang Direct Line to arrange for a sanitizer to pop around the next day to clean up the playroom.
As I tucked into my cheese and cake at Rachel’s dinner, relaying the story of shitgate, I momentarily felt very naughty for leaving Carolyn, the girls and Mother in that shit infested house while I guzzled my bubbly. But then I didn’t and continued enjoying my evening.
Tomorrow was another day. A stinky one.
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