Plumbing Dilemma

Steve the plumber

Plunger for a pound.

 

 

There are some things that we in the western world take for granted and the flush of a toilet and the draining of water from the kitchen sink are 2 of 'em, unless of course you are in Greece, where if you are lucky enough to be short enough of cash that you have gone on a cheap and cheerful holiday to the beautiful island of Paros, you might be able to, as I did to sit and pee and number 2 and then watch it all disappear through the open drain in the loo floor. It's an odd thing to remember I admit, given how idyllic the place is, but the loo situation was pretty extreme, and possibly a purposeful reminder not to throw other stuff down the loo. Of course if you happened to accidentally flush something away and were pretty quick and good with a fishing rod or similar, the hole in the floor could have proved quite useful. I am pleased to say that I did not have to put that to the test. 

 

When we built the Big House, Steve became the plumbing Nazi. He gave minute and specific detailed instructions to our darling plumber who was, I am pretty sure, suffering a grande depression after the recent breakdown of his marriage. The plumber was a ham fisted bloke not known for his finesse and so Steve watched him like a hawk and measured degrees and heights and noticed plumbing pipe circumferences and falls of floors and all stuff necessary to ensure that all 5 loos flush gaily away and that all the bathrooms as well as the laundry and the kitchen run like well oiled machines, without the oil cos I understand that too much oil is not a good thing for the pipes, but I could have just made that up. 

 

Anyway, as a result of Steve's fastidiousness and possibly because he might be ever so slightly OCD, all the plumbing works perfectly.

 

This is not the case in the little London flat we are renting for the next 2 months.

 

The kitchen sink just does not drain away.

 

We are renting from a colleague of a friend so there is at least a thin thread of 'Howdy do'. We paid all up in advance before we moved in.

 

So when we noticed the problem - about a minute and a half after we got in, cos you know I wanted to do something pretty extreme like wash my hands, well Steve mentioned to our landlord, and he copped a bit of a frosty response something like, 'Well what does it matter? The dishwasher works.'

 

Neither of us like fundamental things which don't work. If we were here for a couple of days then maybe I could find joy in the silliness of running down the stairs to rinse a cloth in the bathroom or wash some vegetables in loo, but 2 months is looming quite long into the distance and I imagine my smile will wane sometime soon. Steve's already has.

 

We went to the POUND SHOP, a UK institution where, you guessed it, everything costs a pound. Yeh it's a shit shop of rather epic proportions but today for less than a fiver we came out with what Steve imagined might clear the blockage. In my very best Strine accent I talked the manager out of a long strip of plastic that is used to display cheap shit, and that combined with the curtain wire stuff and some draino were the plumber's - Steve's tools of the trade. McGyvering is not something that sits well with Steve, whereas for me after years of fixing stuff in my house myself cos I had no cash to pay a tradie, well it's something I am pretty good at. I tied a couple of bits of plastic together with a bit of ribbon I found in the back of a drawer and Steve set about his task.

 

Here's the TOOLS, or maybe that's us?

 

To say there was shit everywhere is something of an understatement. No water, and no damage just big chunks of shit fished out of what Steve imagines are very poorly plumbed pipes.

 

Anyway, there is some improvement. The sink smells cleaner and now it drains away, even if as slowly as a bunch of old people gumming their way through very tough steak while their dentures are being cleaned.

 

I found a pommie style bucket thing that I have seen used in kitchens over here to wash up in, instead of the sink. Yeh it sits in the sink and the idea has never really hit home for me. but I reckon it might be ok to your wash hands and then as and when is needed tip the bucket into the plants on the balcony or if I am feeling energetic I can run it down the steps to the loo. Yeh that's not gonna happen. 

 

So here's the dilemma. Should we make a fuss of this with the landlord? If we didn't know him from Adam, we certainly would, and Steve wouldn't have spent hours today, up to his armpits in drain blockage shit. Or maybe we should just imagine that we are in some third world place and enjoy it's rustic nature.

 

Would YOU make a song and dance until it is fixed? 

 

Richmond London

The distances in miles belie the metrication of the UK.

Even though it felt like the first chill of autumn today, the flowers are in full bloom - bloody lovely

Punting on the Themes - spoiled for choice as to which boat you might like.

 

 

Back in the day, you know when cavemen ruled and dinosaurs were not registered, and when I was thinner and frivolously spent every penny I earned on stuff and nonsense including appallingly expensive clothes and shoes that hurt just looking at 'em, Richmond was my favourite place to go for a good shop and a look around. It was also an excellent place to go for last drinks away from the prying eyes of local school kids who caught out more than their fair share of rather pissed teachers. It is a shopping, eating, partying place.

 

So I ventured back today to have a good look see and I am pleased to say that it is very little changed. Only a couple of the shops have closed and morphed into another designer jobbie and some of the cafes and eateries have changed signage but it all feels pretty much the same. There are lovely little cobblestone pathways with expensive shops whose opening hours speak of lux and privilege - yeh that means the bloody places were still closed when I was there wanting to have a bit of a gander, which might have been just as well, cos how many lavender lace and net hats does a girl really need?

 

But perhaps my favourite part of Richmond is the Hill. No it ain't like the old HILL at the GABBA where men drank beer till they were puking and women got their tits out to the loud appreciation of the crowds. No the Hill is full of disparate galleries and designers' store fronts and cafes and the odd little pub.

 

I found a Dog heaven place which required an engineering degree to enter as there were a series of doggie gates which I suppose even the cleverest canine would wonder about. Anyway, I was too far in to politely retreat, when the smell of wet shaggie dog hit me. It was quite the stink. Through an open door I could have, had I lost all olfactory sense, watched while a large pooch was clipped. There was a vast array of doggie collars and leads - not the rude kind, but even for Dibley Dog, I could not stay there for long enough to select a new flash one. 

 

Somewhere up the hill and a bit around the corner, if you are lucky, you might run into Mick Jagger. I say this like I am his best friend and have often popped in for a cup of sugar and a wrinkle face mask, but in truth I am only spreading gossip, even if it does come from a reasonable source - Not THE SUN, but that which I just can't remember at the moment. It's a pretty walk even if you don't run into anyone famous.

 

Then back to the river, The River Thames. It always sounds so much grander than it is in person. The tides rise and fall rapidly here at Richmond and I have been caught out having a squiffy long lunch at the Swan only to stumble out into a foot of water. The Tow Path was pretty hairy today covered in mud-slim from a recent high tide. It's always useful to either wear or pack a pair of thongs in your handie if you are going to a session on the river at Richmond.

 

Yep Richmond is definitely worth a visit if you are just popping over to Blighty for a little R & R or in deed if you are lucky enough to live near by.

 

Battle of the Beaches.

Doesn't seem to matter where I am in the world, I always manage to find a stretch of beach to visit and look at and sniff and enjoy.

Brighton Beach here in the UK has always held great allure. It's only about an hour away from London and I can't count the number of times I have hopped into my car and taken off to get some sea air and a bit of breakfast. The parking is more often than not a pain in the arse, but once sorted the place` is just magical. On an ordinary day the water is just a calm lapping on the stoney beach. There is a fine Pier that is very English and there are quaint old fashioned foodie places along the water's edge and then when you head into the built up area you can find yourself getting gloriously lost in The Lanes. There are all sorts of eateries and little shops that are not part of some boring chain.

But yesterday's visit was even more fabulous, cos the weather was bloody wild and wonderful. It was blowing a gale and intermittently pissing rain. All this whipped up the water to a damn fine surf, but there was a lack of nutcases ready to take it on, which was just as well cos I reckon any loon having a go would have lost their board and then probably their teeth as they got slammed straight into the rocks.Walking back to find the car was a windy battle and my hair and clothes and as hard as it might be to believe even my fat old body were whipped and bent about. I laughed and laughed. It was very exciting, perhaps more so cos I had not seen it like this before.

Brighton Beach in all it's wild glory

 

 

So to the Aussie beaches. Well I do love 'em, everything about 'em. They too can go from calm peaceful places to weather ripped up bits of chaos, but it doesn't matter to me, cos I am always happy there.

Aussie bold colours and white squeaky sand and vast emptiness.

Oh and of course I must remember that Dog loves the Oz connection.

 

So I guess this is not like the Rugby World Cup.

 

In this instance there doesn't have to be an absolute winner.   

Sunday Roast

It's no secret that Stevie loves his roast dinner on a Sunday, loves it so much that in deed he cooks it himself cos I am a cheese on toast kinda girl on Sundays. And just because we are on holidays I see no reason to change the habits of a lifetime.

He remembered the name a of a pub in Teddington where he had been to for some famous roast last time he was here, so I said it wasn't too far and that we should walk. Winter is coming but at the moment the temps are still warm enough for shirt sleeves and yesterday there was no rain, so we made hay while the sun shone. I remembered walking to Teddington when we lived on the other side of Twickenham years ago, but as time would have it, the distance seemed to have stretched like worn elastic. It was quite a hike, but good for those of us who had spent 3 days pickled.

The Builders Arms is a pub tucked away in a side street and it was heaving, just lucky that we had booked.

Orange lemonade and a diet coke and an order of roast beef with a side of cheesey cauliflower. I had done a bit of a reccie and it looked bloody fine.

The pub is pretty small and traditional. There is a wee garden out the back and as it was crowded inside we considered sitting out there, but then I spotted the ashtrays and asked if this was the smokers spot. She said that everyone just popped out the front door onto the street with their drinks if they wanted a fag and that no-one smoked out there, but I reckoned where there is an ashtray there is bound to be someone puffing away so we trooped back inside, to a table near the door and watched the parade of smokers move out the door and onto the street.

It's an odd arrangement that would just not be allowed in Oz. Firstly they take their drinks with 'em and there are a few tables and chairs set up outside to perch their drinks on. No-one seems to sit down, but it is a very jolly little area, except of course if you are a local and trying to walk home. Then I reckon walking through the cloud would not be too pleasant.

I noticed that the streets were really crowded with cars. There just wasn't room to park another bobby pin anywhere. When the pub's governor pulled up he inched closer and closer to the blue car in front until he nudged it forward enough to make a little space for himself. Again I reckon this sort of nudge it parking would be frowned on in Oz. It seems to me that there are just more people and therefore more cars in the suburbs now, perhaps as a result of converting homes to little flats and cramming more folk in. The price of real-estate is huge and I am very pleased NOT to be finding rent here anymore. A 1 bed 1 bath goes for about 1200 pounds a month, where as when I was renting it was about 1000 quid a month for a whole house! Yeh I know it was years ago, but still.

But to the ROAST.

Bloody brilliant! Real gravy! Superb spuds, and those wonderful Yorkshire Puds, which if I was a cook I'd learn to make cos I reckon a plate of 'em with some gravy could be dinner, Cauliflower good enough to almost convert to vegie and Beef so rare and tender I wondered where the rest of the cow was, cos I fancied taking some home for the rest of the week. Perhaps one of the best bits was that there was no pumpkin to be seen, no pumpkin contaminating the rest of the scrumptiousness. There were some carrots for colour and Steve found some leeks and some homemade horse radish.

It was soooo yum, that there was just no room left for pudding, which was a shame, cos that looked pretty fab too.

Home on the bus and a timely purchase of the London Times and into the bath - it was Sunday after all.

Reckon this weekend was the calm before the storm that is bound to be the Rugby World Cup, which starts on Friday.

Pretty sure that Twickers is gonna go a bit mental.

Double Decker, Chiswick, Girlie natter

Chiswick is where we used to live and it's a great spot for walking the high street and window shopping and buying just about anything from shoes to steaks and screwdrivers, and there is an over-supply of mobile phone shops. People in these parts must change up their devices A LOT. There are more than enough pubs and the atmosphere is a bit of a cross between mad festival and yummy mummies meet bankers on the sly. It's possible to sit all day and just watch the passers-by. It's 3 suburbs away from Twickenham, so a plan to meet up with a girlfriend meant - Oh Yippee, a Double Decker Ride.

With Oyster card sorted and primed I waited across the road for the 267. It was a long wait, 2 minutes! not in the same league as the wait wait wait, Are they on strike? wait for a bus down Bundall Road. I jumped on after a quick reccie to establish that the upstairs front seats were free, swiped my card, only 1and a half quid, and headed for the top. Saturday night traffic through the suburbs made the going slow, but for me this allowed time to reacquaint myself with the once very familiar. ( I am reading this horror novel about a woman who got killed and so when a bloke sat down in the seat behind me, it was a bit freaky.)

I hopped off in Chiswick High Road, my once familiar stomping ground. Yep it was just the same. Oh sure, some of the stores had been replaced, but the crinkled pavers and the hustle of people was just the same. I felt like I had come home.

I headed for the Old Packhorse pub. In my memory, this has been an old dero place, then a yummy mummy place where I once saw women changing shitty nappies on the cloth sofas. The gaggle had taken over the entire back end of the pub and stayed all day gossiping and trying to retain some sanity over one or extravagantly perhaps 2 cappuccinos. I reckon the Mummy clientele was just not sufficient to make a profit so now it's morphed into a friendly pub with a decent Thai restaurant.

The thing about London pubs is that they are not trying to be oldie worldie. They just bloody are. The furniture is authentic and the floor boards could speak volumes. And I know this sounds a bit romantic especially to Aussies whose pubs are new and slick and plastic and shiney bright. I do warn however that oldie worldie very often means worn out springs and chairs and table height mismatch, so a little game of Goldilocks is needed as you try out various settings looking for the one that is 'just right'. I got there early and played the game and then found a winner.

A couple of bottles of pinot and a Thai curry and through the tears and the giggles we put the world to rights. Well sometimes that is not possible even over a very fine chicken massamo but we gave it a red hot go. Ta Chris, I am so glad we caught up.

Off to the bus stop and home again. 3 quid for all that travel. I guess it's a tightrope walk in London, trying to compare public transport costs with the price of parking, and even if you can afford the parking, there is no guarantee that you'll be able to find one. And if you factor in the drinkies, then taking the car is just not an option.

I do love popping off to the pub on the double decker.

Off to the Market

Food - a necessary evil.

It is not a secret that trawling through the supermarket aisles, chucking necessary shit into the trolley and then parting with a large thickness of wonga gives me the irrits. But in a different country with different brands and let's be honest, perhaps the best sweetie selection around, well that could sound like fun.... for about a second and a half.

The car park for the flat is tucked away more securely than a trannie's bits and bobs, so the first order of the day was to get the car out of the said spot. Did you know that directions given to miss a fucking great concrete post come in at least 2 different language? Male and Female. So Steve is driving and I am saying shit like, 'Whhooooaa, there's the post, go a bit that way, ( accompanied by wild pointing) oh for fuck's sake just leave it there and let's get a bus.' Steve is waiting to hear, ' left hand up my bum and stop'. Well suffice to say that a row erupted, much to the joy of the delivery blokes who the whole time were dodging around us with large sheets of plaster board, you know, just to make the whole process more interesting.

Apart from the thinning hair and the expanding waistline and the blinder eyes and the lack of patience, another age defined problem seems to be a serious loss of spatial awareness. When I lived here I zipped around everywhere, playing no contact dodgems and learned the gentle art of waving a thank you, when what you really said under your breath with the windows up was, 'Fuck that was close.' But my ability to tell how far away that bus is or the car, or in deed the biker or the kid, seems to have evapourated. I am blaming the wide open spaces of Oz, and a significant lack of practice. As Steve headed towards the supermarket, I spent time analysing the inside of my eyelids.

I had forgotten about large UK supermarkets. Seriously you buy ANYTHING there. Tellies and tweezers, formal frocks and furniture. And yes there is food too.

Now when I shop in OZ I have a process so that the stuff is not all mashed up in the trolley. Drinks aisle first and then canned stuff and then other shit. But as we didn't know where anything was we started at one end and made our way.

We ended up having to do a trolley renovation at the beer spot and then I ran out of steam.

So to the checkout.

This is the pile of baggies from yesterday carefully tied in knots so I can forget 'em next time and do it all again.

I didn't think it possible to miss the Oz folk who shovel your shit through the beepy beepy beepy, but yep I do.  Here you are made to feel like some very ungreenie crim when you admit that you will be needing large numbers of those murderous plastic bags and when you are passed a wedge of 'em and the shovelling of stuff starts, you have to bag it all up yourself! And this really should be an Olympic event cos you have to move like Usain Bolt to get it all stacked away in back into the trolley before it becomes suitable only for landfill. There is no finesse in the shopping packing.

All the miss-mash into the boot and it fitted perfectly. Yippee.

Then home to get all those dreadful bags through a security door, into a lift, through another security door and then into the flat and up a flight of stairs to get to the kitchen. Whew!

The docket came with an ONLINE shopping voucher, which is looking pretty good to me for next time.

Spot the difference.

This is the very pommie view from the balcony of our flat.

More than 20 years ago when Belly and I first landed in Blighty, we knew we had arrived and were sorted cos we managed to get through immigration and my cousins were at the airport with their car to take us back to their place....Yeh a very Aussie visit in deed. We unpacked and ate, and spoke to Greg and Margaret about a little plan for the few weeks we were gonna be with 'em. We had POUNDS in our pockets and a little credit card for just in case, and we were off.

Yesterday when we pulled into Heathrow, Steve and I both pulled out our Red Passports - yeh his was real and mine though real too is more like his Blue one. We had pre-paid car hire and so caught the shuttle bus to the pick up office, not too far away. Manoeuvring all that luggage was a damn site easier than picking up the car which had been paid for in advance. Seriously the car hire place needs a little lesson from Greg and Margaret in how to get people sorted and on their way.

More than an hour later we were off and you guessed it, hunting for a place we could get a UK sim card for the phone...(only a landline the first time around - lucky or what!) Did you know that 'pay-as-you-go' sim cards come in 3 different sizes to fit all phones? Well they do and so once one was sourced and stuck in we rang our landlord, Will, who said he was on his way to show us in and around.

Maybe it's an age thing, but I began to sway and feel a little nauseous about 7 o'clock as I started unpacking. Steve had no such problem as he was off on a bus to meet a mate for drinks - now that's what I call staying power. I thought the fact that I managed to log into the flat's WiFi was a remarkable feat.

I ran across the road to M&S for some tea bags, bread and milk and then threw myself into a shower, but as I hadn't found the wash stuff, I managed to get all a bit unnecessary as I scrubbed away with my peppermint shampoo...maybe I should recommend this to the ladies of the night?

I fixed some toast  and settled on the couch, where I promptly feel asleep and finally took myself off to bed at 8.30 like a real old Granny. Of course I have been awake since 2.12am, ho fucking hum...Will do better tonight. 

So today I need to get my phone sorted and grab an OYSTER card so I can get around on the buses and train etc and I need to go to the bank to activate my pommie cards, cos usually they let me have a go once and then cancel the bloody things cos they can't work out how come all of a sudden someone is using 'em to buy a coffee - hardly the most common purchase of a fraudster. But as we are in a flat just above my bank, this should be a doddle.

I haven't been out of the flat yet so I have not negotiated the re-entry procedure - 2 different security coded pads and 2 different locks, but I am sure that I will get it sorted today. Before Steve went out last night I suggested that he write down the 2 codes on his hand and he got all offended cos it was only 8 little numbers, but I know I would have been bollocksed - pommie parlance for buggered.

Buses tootling past

The double deckers are trundling passed the flat and I do love 'em. The urban noise is far different from the rural nature of Bagshot, where Belly and I stayed the first time. But the biggest difference this time compare to 20 years ago is that I feel like I am home. The place is so familiar. Steve and I even managed a disagreement about the best route from airport to Twickenham so I sure do know my way around.

It is lovely to be back. Another day and I will be good to go.

Look out London!