It Shouldn’t Be . . .But It Is

Nothing short of a miracle. After weeks and months dealing with the company we wanted to put an iron railing round the front porch—they still didn’t come out to look at it. And the electrician who wandered all over our house looking at all the work which needed to be done—he never sent a quote. There’s the guy who claims there is not a hole in our roof, but we know there is because of water collected in a tub in the attic and the peeling of the ceiling in one of our bedrooms, well he said he would return with his crew, but so far no sign of him.

There there is this. A couple of months ago this bath-room sink was running slowly and the amateur plumber of the household took out the trap and removed a huge mess of black greasy gunk. But he could tell there was more gunk adhering to the pipe going straight down. We couldn’t figure what it was. There was certainly hair, but I denied washing my hair in the sink—it is just not big enough. The sink was working adequately until a day or so ago when it totally refused to drain. So this morning I phoned the plumber who has worked for us before. We always looked forward to his visits, because he brings along his father, a fine old Italian workman who carefully “supervises” his son’s work, all the while telling the corniest of jokes. But not today: at the age of ninety he has finally decided to retire. I called the son just before ten and he said he would be out either late this afternoon or early tomorrow. Miracle dictu, he turned up a couple of hours later and used his magic machine to clear out our pipe. Again it was hair.

It can’t be. . .  but it was.