Plumbers
Well, I’m obviously not going to rant about all plumbers here, but I am going to get at a certain breed; the ones that carry six-shooters and wear stetsons and spurs.
Note: this is a bit of a rant; feel free to ignore this if you have a mind to.
Anyway, a bit of background first, to put one in the picture.
‘Twas the night before Christmas Saturday night, just passed, and Suzy and I had been to see Eddie Izzard (very funny man) for her birthday (many, many thanks to Kat and Stuart) and were attempting to get home from Glasgow after having missed the last train from Glasgow (problem #1) due to the gig over-running.
We decided to go back to Kat’s old flat and wait for a taxi to the bus station, as we knew there was going to be a bus back to Edinburgh at about midnight. Just at the end of the wait, a taxi arrived to ferry us away to our inter-city transport, although the driver had a bit of scouting to do as the local estate has a bit of confused layout (well, I was confused, but then it was my first time there).
As we got to the bus station, I saw that there was a huge queue for the bus, and thought that there might not be room at the inn on board, but luckily there were a few seat free, so we paid our monies and took our places.
The bus was rather speedy in its travels back to Edinburgh, so we arrived slightly early at about 1am, which we thought would be great. However, we then realised that 1am is pub chucking out time, and we thought we wouldn’t be able to get a taxi. And we were right (problem #2) although not pleasantly so I must say. So, we had to walk home. In the cold. At night. Down Leith Walk. With all the bams and neds and drunks spilling out into the streets. It wasn’t a pleasant experience, but then we’ve both done it a good number of times before, and we didn’t really expect anything else.
Anyway, we arrived back at the flat at about 1.45am, and found Stuart and Pamela had arrived back from their evening out on the tiles. Just before we arrived Stuart had noticed that the backroom floor had water on it (problem #3) which seemed to have come from the toilet cistern. He valiantly mopped up the mess, and checked the cistern to make sure nothing too untoward was amiss. He was a bit drunk.
When we got back, he told me what had happened, so I checked the cistern, to find that (problem #4) the small gizmo attached to the ball-cock (no sniggering at the back there!) has come adrift, and wasn’t connecting with the filler supply valve, hence the cistern was overflowing. The excess water was draining through the cistern overflow pipe (as these things are expected to do) and being transported to who-knows-where through the maze of pipes that makes up the plumbing in a tenement block. I fiddled with the small whatchamacallit, and stopped the filler supply doing too much of what it was designed to be doing. Or so we thought.
We went to bed, as one is wont to do after a long and busy day, only to be woken up at about 2.30am by a sharp chapping at the door. I quickly wrapped a spare duvet around my naked carcass to answer it, and was confronted by my downstairs neighbour who seemed quite panicked, and a little drunk and confused. He then proceeded to tell me that his hallway ceiling had caved in, and there was water pouring into the hallway, and could I come down and take a look. Being a little sleepy and, hence, a little confused myself, I wondered what this had to do with me, so I quickly dressed, donned my house shoes (no slippers here!) and nipped downstairs to see what he was talking about.
“BEIRUT!”[1]
At least that was my first impression. On closer inspection, it seemed that their ceiling had collapsed, the pipe work in the spaces between the flats had disintegrated, and that all surrounding plaster work had turned to mush. And then it dawned on me: (problem #6) my overflowing toilet had done all this.
So I, filled with apologies and embarrassment, ran up the stairs to ‘phone the insurance company. Not having my policy documents to hand, I wasn’t able to call the company immediately, and called the general number, where a very friendly machine gave me the option of talking to an operator or talking to the legal department. Never having claimed insurance before, and not knowing how it worked or what my liability was, I chose the legal department. They were very helpful[2] and gave me another number to ring. That number was the one I just called. Not at all defeated by this uselessness, I called again and was put through to an operator. The operator spoke poor English, and understood me, it seemed, even less that I understood him.
At the end of this call, I think that I had asked for a plumber to come out and see what the deal was. I was wrong - no plumber had been arranged, although this new fella was a great deal easier to understand. So I arranged for a plumber to be called out. The earliest he could come is 8am in the morning. Well that’s something, I thought, and went to bed for a fitful sleep.
(Problem #7) 8am came and went, and no plumber. No plumber at 9am. No plumber at 10am. I phoned the insurance company again. “Sorry, we’re having difficult locating an enginner in your area.” Indeed,” I thought. “We’ll call you back when we find one,” they say. “Great,” thinks I, expecting a call within the next hour or so. 11am - nothing. 12pm - nothing. I call again. “Still nothing, sir. We’ll call you when we do.” “Jolly good,”[3] I think.
1pm. Nothing. 2pm. Zip. 3pm. Nada.
3.30pm, I get a call from a local plumber. “The earliest I can make is 10am tomorrow.” Well, I conceed, if that’s the earliest he can make it, then I’ll have to go with that. What you’ve got to know is that my insurance policy only allows certified tradespeople (although they don’t publish what their certification policy is) so I can’t just get some random plumber in, and claim it back. Luckily he asked my address, as the insurance company had given him the wrong one.
Suzy had been out most of the day with Pamela and Stuart, up at the athletics meet near Arthur’s Seat, so I was alone in the house. I decided to do a few things to get on with the day, although none of them were work related. Also, none of them involved the water system at the north side of the house, as I wasn’t sure what sort of state the plumbing was in (I thought I saw a lot of it on the hall floor of the of the flat below) so I couldn’t wash the dishes, have a bath, use the sink or the toilet.
I decided to go to The Foot of the Walk (A Wetherspoons™ Pub) and (ab)use the facilities there. I kept thinking that they’d chuck me out for not buying a drink so I kept a low profile, as much as someone with blue hair can in such an establishment. I was tempted to try The Golf (another local hostelry) but as it’s far smaller than The Foot of the Walk I thought I’d be more conspicuous.
So I returned home, and continued to do not very much (it’s amazing how much I rely on plumbing to get through the day, I didn’t realise how much I did.)
Monday morning. I set my alarm for 9am, so that I can try and do some work, and be ready for the plumber arriving at 10am. So I start to wait.
9.30am - some plumbers that the letting agent of the flat downstairs had arranged come to the door and ask to take a look, so I let them in so they see what’s wrong. They work it out - it was my cistern overflowing, but to the wrong place.
Apparently the plumber(s) that had converted the old lead pipework for the building hadn’t actually taken away the old piping or the surrounding masonry; they had simply left it sitting on top of the plasterboard that was the ceiling of the flat below. Because of my leak the plasterboard had become wet and weak (which in isself wouldn’t have been a major problem as the plasterboard would probably have coped, according to the plumbers) but with the added weight of the old pipes and brick- and timberwork had sped the failure of the ceiling.
Fuck. Anyway, back to the waiting…
10am - no sign of the plumber.
11am - still nothing from my plumber.
11.45am, my plumber arrives. I explain to him what the plumbers from downstairs had told me: (problem#8) the overflow wasn’t sealed, and it was hooked up to a little 3/4″ pipe, rather than a proper outside overflow or returning to the toilet bowl as most modern toilets do. He concurred and set to work.
Meanwhile, Suzy and I are crossing our legs, eyes and anything else that’ll hold back the need to go to the loo.
The plumber stops what he’s doing and says, (problem#9) “oh, your syphon is broken too, I’ll need to go back to the depot, I don’t have one with me.” “OK,” I say, and he goes to get a new one. He returns shortly with the new syphon, fits it.
Then he says (problem#10) “oh, your ball-cock is broken too. See this?” He points to the small hoojamaflickadingdong that I “fixed” on Saturday night/Sunday morning. I nod dumbly, what the hell do I know about the internals of toilets? “It’s broken. I don’t have one with me, I’ll need to go back to the depot.”
So, again he goes away, comes back with a new ball-cock, fits it, then tries to re-attach the flush handle with the attachment for the new syphon. It doesn’t fit. With a little bit of brute force and the aid of a hammer, he tries to fit the syphon attachment. (Problem#11) he breaks it.
“I’ll need to go back to the depot and get a new one, this one’s too big.” So off he trots again, back to his depot and returns with a new attachment.
It fits! He finishes up fixing the toilet by sealing the dodgy overflow pipe, then turns and says, “my mate is dealing with the insurance, so you’ll probably hear nothing more from us. Have a good day.”
Woo hoo! I can pee again!
So now, we have a working toilet, that doesn’t require a black belt in dimac to flush, that won’t overflow (into the floor/ceiling of downstairs anyway) and all I have to do is clean up the dust and grit that attached itself to my shoes when I went to take a look at the devastation below. I wonder if this makes up for problems #1-11…
At bloody last.
All in all, a great day that ended well, took one look at our smiling faces, said “hmmm, we can’t have this!”, stepped back three paces and give us a bloody major headache!
I’m not going to complain about any of the plumbers that I’ve met today as they’ve all been very helpful and my one was only a little tardy (but I’m sure he’s a busy fellow and was probably late for his next job because of me) but I do think that some tradespeople simply are taking the piss. I expect that why we have those “Home Improvements from Hell” type TV shows.
So, a word to the wise: make sure (a) your insurance is up-to-date and with a good company and (b) the assholes who replaced the old lead pipes in the building have taken them away, and not just left them precariously sitting on a sheet of plasterboard that comprises your ceiling.
Fucking cowboys.
1. I know it’s a cliché, but it was the first thing that popped into my head.
2. Sarcasm.
3. More sarcasm.