The Landlady has a slight plumbing problem

I returned from the boiling hot Maldives to a pretty chilly Blighty – this was before the recent spate of unseasonably good weather – a broken boiler and the entire upstairs of Landlady Towers devoid of electricity. The broken toilet, which has now been broken for over a year – shameful in the house of a qualified plumber – was still drip-dripping a little more rapidly into the Tupperware box at its side. I spent the morning coaxing the electricity back to the upper regions of the house. Worryingly, although it’s now all working again, I still don’t know what was wrong, but suspect a dodgy extension lead in The Big Daughter’s room.

The boiler, however was a different matter and every time I tried to have a shower, it protested loudly, making banging noises that sounded like someone was trying to kick the front door in. So, what does a qualified plumber do when her boiler and toilet need repairing? Well, she calls a plumber, of course.

The toilet was duly replaced with a shiny new toilet, which was not shiny and new for long, once The Big Son had got his hands on it. What is it about boys that they cannot bear to see a clean toilet? It all seemed to be working splendidly well and I went to bed on the Saturday night that the clocks went forward, looking forward to a blissful night’s sleep. I knew that I would not be disturbed by lodgers thundering around upstairs as I was between lettings. What happened next is quite hard to recount without it sounding like the beginning of a fairly poor x-rated movie.

“I was awoken at some ungodly hour by three strapping fireman flashing torches in my room”

I was awoken at some ungodly hour by three strapping firemen flashing torches in my room. See what I mean. I know some people would pay handsomely for this kind of thing, but I was quite alarmed, especially as I had earplugs in and the whole routine was being conducted mute as far as I was concerned. I was also naked – I mean, not as in the firemen were naked too, just that I was naked but for my earplugs.

I must have asked who the hell they thought they were, to which they replied ‘we’re the fire brigade madam’, which was rather unnecessary as the uniforms kind of gave it away. Thankfully, they gave me a minute to compose myself and put some clothes on and I joined them in the hallway. Apparently, my downstairs tenant had called them because there was water pouring through her bathroom ceiling and she couldn’t get hold of me, which should teach me not to put my phone on silent during the night. Somewhat unbelievably, the new toilet was the culprit, which had me thinking that perhaps I live on a weird ley-line which makes toilets mysteriously leak. We emptied the cistern and switched off the water, as I burbled on about being a qualified plumber. I somehow don’t think they believed me.