Yet more waterworks

“HOLY CRAP” thought I, on awaking one morning. “It’s five to nine and the plumber’s here in five minutes.” 

Moments later, eyes still desperately shut despite the fact I was walking about, I had a second thought. Today is not a Plumbing Day. Today is a Plastering Day.  YES ! My complaint had been taken seriously regarding the state of the bathroom walls and they would finally get the treatment they deserve, at the very least capable of supporting a coat of paint.  Apparently there was a leak from the loo tank before I moved in, so the wall behind it was a right mess - a collage of collapsed plaster and brittle paint bubbles. 

It was wonderful watching the paint peel off in huge strips, intact and in no way attached to the wall behind.  (I would have joined in if the room was big enough for two, and I don’t like to get in the way. I'm better employed on kettle duty.) And the opposite wall, by the basin, had been cracked right across halfway up, bulging as though it wanted to fall out, hence it got included on the estimate. The plasterer had insisted, bless him.

I was downstairs in the kitchen when I heard him say “Oooh. Ugg.”  I went up. “Why the Ugg ?” I ask.  “Look at this,” he says, “lath and plaster !” Or some lath and precious little plaster. No wonder that bottom corner had a crack across it.

Pic kindly provided by plasterer using his mobile - I had no running computer & a broken camera

I think the OK from the landlady for this plastering came swiftly because a guilty conscience was already in place. I happen to know she was visiting just before I moved in. I surmise that she thought this disgustingly filthy and cracking bathroom was just fine and dandy. Ditto the freestanding loo roll holder which was marked on the inventory as “E” (lowest grade for quality) and “rusty”.  It was actually ALL rust. I emailed the agent to say it was going to the tip and they said Yes, Absolutely. Don’t ask me what state the bath tiles were in. You don’t want to know. (Let me just say grout and dark pink and brown.) And I wasn’t happy until I’d replaced the shower head and manky hose, either. And the bath and basin plugs which were still slimy and orrible after ten minutes of bleaching and scrubbing. Some things are beyond redemption.

So now all I have to do is wait a week for the plaster to dry out properly, give it a coat of half–water–half–paint as per instructions, wait another day and then, at last, I can make it into a bathroom to luxuriate in, not somewhere slightly icky to be avoided. It’s tiny, but it will be bijou when I’m done. Think it will be a very fetching dark pink, sort of ruby–cherry. The landlady doesn’t like my choice and has asked me to paint it back again when I go. OK. Not a problem. I have a nice long strip of paint kept for precisely that purpose, so I can match it.

One Saturday morning I washed up my coffee cup and wondered why my feet were getting wet. 

The u–bend underneath the sink had come adrift from the plughole. I felt the base of the plughole - it apparently had no thread to screw the collar of the u–bend tube up to it – ‘twas smooth as siIk. Strange.

Washed my hands and got wet feet again. DIMWIT.  Put The Plug In First. I phoned the agent for a plumber and went back for another look. Then phoned again – it was engaged –  I left a message:  “Hang fire! Think I can fix it.” 

I had started peeling off the silicone sealant from around the plughole base. There was a perfectly good thread under all that, but the lads who used to live here obviously hadn’t bothered with it.  (Maybe because you had to push the pipe sideways quite a bit to get it lined up.) I took the whole u–bend off, washed it and put it back, screwing the collar back up on to the plughole.  Watertight.  I have saved the owner another bill.  Then started cleaning all the cleaning stuff and putting it all back under the sink. 

Pity it was the only cupboard in the place which was actually sorted and full.

Plumber’s attendance was necessary when the loo wouldn’t flush. Right from day one. (How did those lads manage?) The plastic gubbins was removed and fitted with new washers, and eventually I learned a trick with the lever which works 99 out of 100 times. Now I have to find a way of stopping the lovely white china handle falling off every two days. Dare I just glue it, for posterity ?

Such are my days at Th St.  I am once again the toast of the local tradesmen. They can count on me for a decent living.

For all that, I actually like this house. Something about it just suits me. I'm glad I'm here.

But I do miss the chickens.