The victorian era

Sometimes some things in life are just too big to deal with. That just the thought of having to deal with them makes you think, God, I'm staying at work another 15 minutes just so I can avoid dealing with them. However, I just read this and it made me laugh so . .

On November 30th, there were definite toilet problems in our house. As in, it was taking ages for stuff to flush and for the water to go down. This was an unfortunate thing to find out at midnight on a Sunday. On Monday, we should have called our landlady and asked for a plumber. Instead, we let things get progressively worse until, on the following Saturday, a literal shit storm occurred. Luckily it was my uncles 50th birthday and so we had anothers facilities to use for the evening. Which, being classy peeps, we told him. Or, at least, I did. It was definitely, DEFINITELY, time to call the landlady and arrange a plumber.

You would think that that would be the end of the story and I am sure, for most people, they call a plumber and shit (literally, remember) would get sorted. But. NO. In fact, I would say, we went BACKWARDS. Somehow (THAMES WATER CONTRACTORS COCKSUCKERS) we ended up with a call out charge of £65 with NOTHING BEING DONE because we weren't at the house. We were at work. Where a large proportion of people are on a Monday afternoon.

All I wanted to do on Monday was come home, find the toilet sorted and watch the last episode of Spooks. But did this happen? NO. I mean, I managed to watch Spooks but only because Matthew cannily convinced us to get Sky wherein live TV can be paused. And pause Spooks I did. I paused it to answer numerous calls from our landlady which varied from: "I mean, what the fuck?" and "This never happened when *I* was living there" and "Could you go and knock on the neighbours doors and ask if they are also experiencing any problems." So that is how I found myself standing shivering my bollocks off knocking on neighbours doors and asking them about toilet troubles at 10pm. Spooks is confusing enough at the best of times. Pausing it every 5 minutes meant that I was forgetting plot lines from an hour beforehand and I was all, OH JESUS SAVE LONDON FROM THE CRAZY RUSSIANS ALREADY I NEED A BOUNTY AND BED.

The best part of Monday night was picking ticks off of the cat and that is an experience neither me, Sophie or Clyde would like to remember.