Venusberg | That's not your heart, it's a piece of helicopter casing

Saturday, July 03, 2004

It begins with cold water, and then with the sucking of teeth and the tutting. I stand, knowing at the very least that this shit is not going to come out of my pocket, that the 20 grand or so I have poured into the bottomless pockets of my landlady, whose father stands inexplicably before me talking about cracked tiles and cold showers, will be tapped for the restoration of privileges.

Eventually, the builder arrives. I should point out here that I use the term "eventually" only in terms of standing around in a kitchen with your landlady's father. In the timescale in which builders can normally be expected to do things "eventually", this is pretty darn peppy. This is, I am told, a special favour. Father and builder have known each other since forever. Father was present at builder's birth. It is explained to me in the slightly confused tones of those trying to clarify something that they never believed they would need to clarify that it is easier to get hold of Prince Charles than a builder. Of course I should hand over my house keys. Without access to my home at a moment's notice, when time is snatched from all the other tasks, this will never get done. I ask him to give me a call when he is on his way to my house. He simply cannot understand why. I can no longer think of a single compelling argument. I have never been present at anyone's birth, and I can't fit a pipe.

All this I know. Although I have not so far in my life had to deal with this, the middle-class jungle drums carry such rumours back, of plumbers earning sixty grand a year, of plumbers twisting the Palm Pilots and Pocket PCs of the nation's capital to their will. To be honest, offer me sixty grand a year to work up to my elbows in other people's effluvia, I'd probably be slow to snap your hand off, but if the middle classes aren't feeling exploited then they aren't the middle classes.

Anyway. This is all very lovely. I am so impressed by this speedy response, one heralded at half past nine the night before. Apparently this is how these things are done in London, which perhaps explains why nothing ever seems to get done.

And still. Wonderful though this is, it is only the beginning. The installation of the boiler will be the end of a long, hard road. The man who will ultimately provide the boiler, I am reassured, installed the same model in his son's flat. I fight the urge to ask after the health of his son. Paternity seems to be a recurring theme in this conversation. Births. Parturition. My landlady's father attending my builder's birth. My boilermaker's son. Of course, when the waters break, the husband is sent to boil some water. I have never really understood this before. To get him out of the way? To sterilise instruments? To make a nice cup of tea? Now I understand. It is because the boiler has packed up.Possibly some time earlier.

Thursday was nothing more than a reconnaissance. In the return on Friday, the builder has not even troubled to procure a new boiler. That would be reckless, idiotic. Dangerous. These jobs take time, and time is far more precious commodity than hot water. I nod, and smile. I think I'm getting Stockholm syndrome.

And then the floor. And the washing machine. Hip bone connected to leg bone. One strand of my flat is pulled and the whole thing unravels. Repeat until fade: I am not paying for this. I have no hot water, I have no kitchen floor, but I am not paying for this.

Right. Off to the gym for a shower.

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