Played by the Brighouse and Rastrick Brass Band* seems a singularly appropriate tune to play to those on hold to Yorkshire Water. It could be worse, a pleasant enough way to bide your time, if a bit giggle-inducing. A whole lot better than that bloody Richard Clayderman song (on a very short loop) you used to get while waiting (sometimes for literal hours) for the sewers of Cuba Telefónica to connect you to to the UK. That’s sent more than one journo stark screaming mad over the years, believe me (I know. I was that soldier).
I feel like I’ve been on hold to Yorkshire Water for most of the morning thanks to a Sudden! plumbing emergency – on top of an already-existing plumbing emergency – that’s kept me indoors, waiting for the plumber and not walking the puppy and enjoying this gorgeous, clear and snowy-frosty weather. I’m not pleased. The puppy’s not pleased and is taking it out on the cat. The cat is responding with extreme violence and climbing the walls. Life is somewhat fraught.
Poppy is probably just getting her own back on me. A couple of days ago I yelled at her for soaking her bed in what I (now mistakenly, I fully accept) thought was a gallon of puppy-pee. Having mopped up and disinfected and washed everything, only to have it all re-soaked, I now realise there’s a leaking pipe under the bedroom floor. We’re sleeping in a marsh. The room smells dank and mouldy. It’s not at all nice. We are insured and a plumber should be here ‘sometime before three’ (can you narrow that down a bit? No, sorry, of course you can’t, how very silly of me). I suppose all the furniture will have to be taken out before he (or she) comes, too. That’s going to be fun.
So, I was dealing with all the tooing and froing on that particular sticky wicket (plus a blue and shivering postie, plus the usual stream of cold-calls from Bombay) when a horrible noise in the kitchen and total absence of water in the taps alerted me to a second, more acute problemette. Lots more calls back and forth brought a Flying Emergency Water Man! who has established it’s something affecting the village and not a frozen pipe, thank all the Gods. Our water flows again, but until it stops being the colour of weak wee, I ain’t makin’ a cup of tea with it.
I’m still waiting for Plumber Number One to arrive and tell us why the bedroom floor is a boggy mire. I suspect that will be a less easily-dealt-with and much more unpleasant thing to sort out. Honestly peeps! I’ve not done a lick of work this morning. I haven’t even checked me emails.
* Yorkshire! Water! Genius.