deja vu all over again

This time it was not the macerator. This time it had little to do with The-Thing-That-Flushes, except in a connective, waterpipe-esque sorta way. This time it was the bloody downpipe and the ridiculous, decade-past refurbishment that involved sealing all stopcocks and access points behind a friggin’ wall. I ask you, would anyone not injesting large amounts of Class A substances think that this was a good idea?

In order to ensure that water flows into the drain I therefore had to:

1. call a plumber who now thinks I’m totally insane due to my anxious mental state (completely understandable, in my opinion, due to the excessive amounts of cash so far lavished on a very small toilet cubicle which, to the naked eye, is just a cafe loo. Albeit a very clean one.) So he dismantled the whole system, pushed his coil (??) as far as he could, replaced all the piping that the corpulent prat* who originally fitted the damn thing had bodged together with sealant, and recommended a specialist.
2. Knocked on the door of the currently-undergoing-refurbishment-flat next door in the vain hope that this was a simple issue caused by the work on refitting their kitchen. So now I have two plumbers: one who thinks I’m channeling Carrie, and one who is a part-time practitioner of Reiki. Still no diagnosis with regards the piping, but apparently my aura seems a little grey.
3. Call Suparod and leave a plea for help so obviously derranged that the guy phones me back within 5 minutes, leaves his personal number and assures me (in the manner of one talking a lunatic down from a ledge) that someone will be with me “as soon as possible – I promise.”
4. Greet the arrival of a clearly suspicious Paul with the immortal words, “Thank God you’re here – are you married? Do you want to be??”
5. Watch as Paul, having swiftly located the access pipe that the rest of us spent the last hour pointlessly searching for (a pathetic attempt at professionalism which consisted of a conga line of amateurs wandering in and out of cupboards and stairwells, poking at random bits of masonary saying ”D’ya think that’s it?” to no-one in particular), punches a huge hole in the wall, blow-torches another one in the pipe, drips oil all over the carpet already ruined by Scottish Water’s abortive attempt to fit a water meter last year, hoses out the blockage, patches the whole thing up, apologises for the mess (gotta love that man!) double checks all the other fittings, suggests a ‘one-way, Star Trek valve if it happens again’ (or words to that effect) and leaves, cheque in hand, without collecting so much as a parking ticket - in itself a minor miracle on Woodlands Road.
6. Cheer as the toilet flushes and the water gurgles merrily down the drain.
7. Con Colin into driving me to B&Q to collect the bits from which I will fashion a replacement wall.
8. Cover the gaping Hole of Doom with a bit of MDF, paint the whole thing beige and pretend it’s not there.
9. Weep as the bloody sink starts making ominous noises again.

I have called the plumber (who is obviously call-screening) and suggested in an airy, “I promise I’ve taken my meds”, Doris Day tone of voice, that he might like to come back and fit the Vulcan Death Valve. For cash.

So far, no response. I can’t think why…

* the same beer-bellied chauvanist who told me that the reason for the persistant leak from the cistern was due to the size of my arse. Nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that this apparently experienced plumber had put the seals to the tank on upsidedown. Needless to say, I wouldn’t recomend that particular gentleman for the post of Organiser of Brewery Revelry. Despite the fact that he was visibly a long-term fan.