I hate this house (pt.2)

I ventured again to the DIY megastore, determined on purchasing a new washer, having been told for many years that the problem is normally just a washer. DIY equipment is seriously expensive, yet utterly essential for living in your own house, for example: a toolbox must actually have tools in it. I purchased an “adjustable pipe wrench”, the optimal words being ‘adjustable’, ‘pipe’ and ‘wrench’, it filled a threefold purpose; there were defiantly pipes involved, and I need to adjust them. Having an educated guess at the pipe size, it’s fairly obvious yet measuring before leaving is always advisable, I picked up a stopcock type of affair, connecting piece, and an end stopper, declaring my determination to retain my manhood and avoid that piteous look of ;’never mind’ from a plumber, while metaphorically bending me over. If the tap could not be saved then I would just cap the leak; the wet room is destined for absolute refurbishment, this is likely the toilet equivalent of rebellion. Provided the leak is plugged, it will do.

Returning via the train and bus, having dropped the borrowed car to my parents, I arrived plumbing supplies at hand, setting to work after a good binge and much procrastination. Located in the midlands we avoid major weather issues, especially when compared to the hammering Somerset and elsewhere has taken this week from the floods., yet its is still extremely windy and very, very cold. Venturing outside, rapidly becoming a surly loser at the game of hunt the stopcock, I located the immovable street level water inlet – another futile exercise succeeding only in freezing myself to the bone. Tool in hand I showed the tap its new adversary, affording it the opportunity of surrender before the incursion; its face turned to the wall it refused defiantly to accede. Unsure of any actual plan and determined to show no mercy, I started turning and pulling, alternatively increasing the water spray and reducing it independent of the direction of rotation. Off came the socks; including the top pair of mismatched women’s slipper socks that had been admirably keeping my feet warm until reaching saturation. Eventually the water and pipes achieved superheated status, affording me little opportunity to approach, let alone touch in the impressive steam room. Like a magical light bulb an idea switched on in my head: turn the boiler off! A conclusion to which I may not admit to having taken me quite so long to arrive at, cold water is much easier to handle. I had reached the point of no return, unable to stop the now raging micro-torrent; more clothing took its leave. Sat on the toilet seat and begrudgingly enjoying the steam, (taking a shower in a truly unexpected place) I had a second moment of inspiration, inspired by movies with oil-rigs as their subject matter – I would strike water, and cap it like those hardy riggers, all manly, active and soaked to the bone. Again I began to turn the connecting nut, for once in a consistent direction. With each turn there appeared a new layer of shiny metal, the thread of the screw glistening in the steam as it loosened, releasing the pressurised water as a rapid spray as it strained within. I refocused, unperturbed by the increasing spray, mentally braced for the expected eruption.  Two centimetres of shining screw projected when, suddenly…. the lid fell off…

…a low dribble emerged from the pipe… a decidedly anticlimactic turn in the absence of Richard Burton’s melodious tones. Having a good guess at the appropriate way up, I added the stop cock to the end and twisted the nut back into position; remarkably the drip abated. I had completed the job; soaking wet, much of the downstairs condensed with steam, tools, pipe bits and other unknown plumbing accessories abound, the room had been salvaged. Gusher capped I kicked open the living room door (opened lightly anyway, I wouldn’t want to poke the grizzly), hands on hips, feathers cocked, channelling the hardy, raggy oil-men of the black-gold rush, the spoils of my endeavour dripping from my entire body, face laboured yet triumphant, exhausted yet victorious; I had been initiated into the annals of those industrious men. C appeared less than overwhelmed, the knitted brows being a dead giveaway; the absence of clothing, save floral boxer briefs, possibly reducing the overall effect.

I am gradually preparing for fatherhood, a real man should be able to do these things, i.e. provide hot water for their family; a dad must be able to do dad things, including barely adequate DIY, botching up problems to be fixed another day. I may be a long way from true manliness, but today I took a giant stride towards Dadliness.