Wednesday, June 1, 2005

Going with your gut - and everybody else's

Yeah, you know, it will seriously date you as a 50-something. Some uncouth types might even claim it‘s an anthem for 60-somethings. But, sometimes, things just come together in a moment of creative magic and you have to go with your gut. It‘s what makes the Oscars and Grammies, Pulitzers and Loeries each year.

It‘s a moment like that which put that song in your mind. “I rode my bicycle past your window last night, I roller-skated to your door at daylight . . . whoa . . . I‘ve got a brand new pair of roller skates, you got a brand new key.” You hope nobody asks. It‘s been there since about 6.30am on Tuesday. Shortly after you woke up to find the city had been hit by its second 1-in-50-years flood in 18 months.

Except the words you‘re singing to the tune are slightly different: “I saw your turd float through my lounge door last night. I scheme it had to be a bit off the map.” There‘s a bit of poetic licence but some of the syllables don‘t fit like they should, just one too many if you want to set this great bit of verse to the tune of “Brand new key”.

At first you thought it was the rain on the garage roof making such a noise; then you realised it was the toilet overflowing. So you grabbed the bobbejaan to turn off the water but it still overflowed, until you realised, twas actually coming up the toilet bowl.

Now, you‘ve spent your time in the trenches, literally. Okay, so you were a laaitie at the time, but it counts. Mainly Walmer trenches, where the sand is soft and you didn‘t break your back trying to score some extra pocket money digging sewer trenches and manholes for your old man. So, you know a bit about the importance of gravity when it comes to measuring the drop of your trench system. You also know it‘s a rare moment when the stinkwater flows uphill. Usually when you used to help test the pipe you‘d be down on all fours at the lowest point in the trench, waiting for the water to come down the hill.

Now, here you are with a beaut in your bathroom, a back-washing toilet bowl, flowing at the rate of about a cubic metre every two minutes. You don‘t know how much that is but it sounded impressive when you were telling the plumber over the phone the extent of your problem. At least they accepted your word; the municipal guys thought you were high on something.

You‘ve got about a metre of water backed up in the drainage “courtyard” outside your house, adding to the pressure on your toilet. For six hours the water runs relentlessly from your toilet and into the house, following every available crack and cranny as if they were conduits created especially for it, seeping into carpets, damming up in corners, trying to get to the swimming pool. It‘s pretty clear, probably rainwater, but you‘re not going to taste it to make sure.

The plumbers you‘ve called in have thrown in the towel, soaked to the bone from trying to plug a hole, their motorised pump a valiant but inadequate tool in this situation. And then the sewage comes. Raw, liquidy mess. You don‘t look too closely, you‘re no longer being paid pocket money by your old man to examine what comes out of the pipe.

Three hours later the municipal experts arrive. This team has a “can do” spirit second to none. They‘ve cut through muck-filled blockages and stopped gunge pouring on to ratepayers‘ properties throughout the city this morning. Within minutes the toilet fountain has stopped and a large mopping up team has arrived with mops and sanitary equipment. But not before enough municipal stormwater and drainage staff have come to see this unusual phenomenon. You feel like you‘re welcoming the masses to witness an image of Fatima shedding tears of blood from the dining room wall.

You hope the smell eventually disappears completely. You think the jokes would stop too now, like the guy who asked if you intend swopping the Staffie for a pooh-dle, or if your decision to move the poohl-room is a permanent one. But let just one more bugger call you a pooh-ftah and you‘re going to wallop him. You‘re not pooh- poohing these idiots.