The last few days saw me digging deep. It wasn’t dignified labour either. I was on my knees at the foot of the garden, trowel in hand reaching into a deep, narrowing hole.
I was searching for what plumbers told me was a ‘Blackpool trap’. This would connect our Victorian drains at the rear of Edmonds Towers to the borough’s sewerage system.
Someone had foolishly filled in that hole and hidden it under a concrete slab decades ago. I pulled out broken bricks, rubble as well as earth, then hit clay. What’s more, this task was made more miserable by me suffering my annual winter cold.
Spurring me on in all this were a couple of drain gullies in our yard, that flooded if subjected to too much waste-water from washing machine, dishwasher, sink and worse. Also, She Who Knows was giving me encouraging looks from our rear windows. No, it’s not been a happy time! It all left me so exhausted I’ve had to be content relaxing inside by the fireplace afterwards, instead of joining in seasonal cavorting elsewhere.
Still, as She Who Knows pointed out: “That’s made it rather nice and cosy.”
My housebound toil and infection have brought other rewards too. I got our Christmas cards ready early and festive shopping done through the internet.
At last, both my sinuses and our old drains have been unblocked. She Who’s medicine helped bring the first relief. Then emergency cover on our insurance paid for a drains engineer who, pumping through, found a weird blockage of baling twine.
It’s been wonderful to get the all-clear; now appreciating both good health and our modern conveniences, so easily taken for granted.
However, just where, I still pondered and asked our engineer, was my Blackpool trap?
“No idea,” he said then laughed, “but there’s nothing down that hole you dug.”
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