I thought all that rain was “a good thing”. It would all help to water our gardens and keep the reservoir levels up.
Unfortunately those sudden extremely heavy downpours two days ago meant that, in the technical terms I have recently acquired, the mains are up as well.
I was beginning to think that I should head over to SURVIVAL BOX and order a few foldable loos.
Seriously. The tell-tale slow disappearance of fluid down our cloakroom (don’t you love that word) loo caused me to gather up my torch with its obligatory on-its-way out battery and head to the end of the drive to gaze down the storm water drain. Ah ha, if I can see water about half a metre from the top then you can bet that the drains running down the middle of our road are actually not running anywhere. So I called dearly beloved Thames Water and so began the saga of the crossed legs. I love these incidents to be logged so I went next door and asked my neighbours to call TW as well. He can’t resist a look down a manhole so he had a look down the one in his garden – all clear, then the one in our drive . Suffice to say that was not all clear.
I could do my grumpy old woman act on this subject for hours on end but for the sake of my reader I will cut a long story short and just say that it took them just over 24 hours from the original call for TW to give us the luxury of having somewhere for our stuff to go after we had gone!!
Just don’t get me started on how many flats a developer wants to build on the land he will have when he knocks down a perfectly decent early 1920s verandah-wrapped bungalow.