Chronologically disadvantaged
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It is a quiet night chez Bland. The night rubs against the windows like a cat, and the rain does a Busby Berkeley tap routine on the roof. Your beloved narrator is spreadeagled on the sofa, watching the highlights of the Ryder Cup. Well, I say watching. Your beloved narrator is more sort of listening, while resting his eyes. And snoring. Above my head, the large, brownish patch on the ceiling - which I'd meant to get round to painting over last month, but you know how these things are - begins to darken ominously. A small drop of water forms in its centre. Slowly, the drop of water grows in size until gravity begins to pull at it. The drop of water resists. Gravity tugs a bit harder. The drop of water grits its teeth and stays put. Gravity gently suggests to the drop of water that it should pull its socks up and just bloody fall. The drop of water shakes its head and says it would much rather stay on the ceiling, thanks very much. Gravity threatens the drop of water with a crowbar. The drop of water shivers. Then, with a remarkable precision, it flings itself into my open, snoring mouth. "Cah, pftht, wah! What the hell was that?" Lucy - who is sitting next to me on the sofa and who has been watching the drop of water's birth and its swan dive down my gullet with rapt attention - explains that the roof is leaking. We stare up at the ceiling. More drops of water, seeing that their fellow has fallen to earth with no ill effect, have decided to join the party. A large damp area is forming on the sofa. The brown patch on the ceiling has gone very dark. "Ah, bugger it," I say. "We'll stick a bucket under the leak and get someone in to have a look at it tomorrow." As it turns out, this is not the best plan ever devised. Eventually, Lucy and I board the sleepy train to Bedfordshire (after I have spent ten minutes brushing my teeth, trying to get the taste of roof-juice out of my mouth). I can sleep for Europe, so I'm out like a light (after a bit of... well, you know). Somewhere in the night I have the sensation of a roaring or a shuddering, but then it's back to dreamland. I am woken by Lucy putting a wet hand on my face. I look at the clock by the bed. It is still silly a.m. "Roof's gone," she says. "Ruth? Who's Ruth?" I am confused. It is far too early for one of Lucy's non sequiturs. "Not Ruth. Roof. Come and see." She takes me by the hand and pulls me out of bed. Like a wobbly-legged fawn, I follow her into the hallway, mewling plaintively. "What's going on? Luce? Why are you all wet? Oh." As I splosh into the living room, it becomes achingly obvious why she is all wet. The roof has fallen in. I shall draw a discreet curtain over the scene that follows. There is rather a lot of swearing. It has since become clear that a small lake has been forming on the flat roof above my abode for some time now. The rain in September swelled it to such an extent that the lake decided it needed to expand its premises, preferably in a downwards direction. The drop of water that fell in my mouth was just the scouting party. Lake: What do you have to report, Private Droplet? Droplet: Well, the flat's a bit scummy, and you don't even want to know about the carpet they've got in there, but they do have a brand-new widescreen TV and a DVD player that we could really fuck up by falling on. Lake: Good work, soldier. We've got to wait for the place to dry out before we can get someone in to sort it all out (at prohibitive expense, naturally). Thank God for contents insurance, that's all I can say. In the meantime, we are homeless. And this is why we are staying (God help us) in the spare room of my employer, the splenetic and not-in-any-way-at-all easygoing Marxist Jim. It's a tense time for all of us. P.S. Menace guessed correctly. Well done, sir. Your prize is my good opinion. The story of Enzo's emergence from the closet is to follow. The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Bethany Riesling 2005 (Australia). Crisp and limey, like cold autumn rain filtering gently through the plaster in your ceiling. £6.49
Disaster!
4.10.06 11:34
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lilo / Website (4.10.06 11:48) All flat roofs are a disaster waiting to happen. I should know - we came back from honeymoon to find ours had leaked into the sitting room because the upstairs neighbours had been using it as a patio. We couldn't get anything on the insurance because the roof isn't supposed to be used as a patio. The tennants upstairs moved out leaving no forwarding address and we ended up being £1,500 lighter. We have since put two bars across the window they were using to gain access to the roof, much to the chagrain of the scum estate agents for the flat above who advertised the property as having an 'external living space'. Sorry - I should put all this rubbish on my own blog. |
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Late (4.10.06 11:52) I feel your pain, Lilo. An estate agent could justifiably advertise my flat as having an inside plunge pool at the moment. |
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cathexist / Website (4.10.06 12:53) I live 'neath a flat roof too, and I can say they are uncommonly generous when it comes to the provision of water features in otherwise arid homes. A couple of years ago mine decided to provide me, gratis, with an eco-friendly rain-powered sprinkler system (invaluable should my flat catch fire during a storm) and an indoor waterfall, whereby water would trickle serenely down the walls of my hallway and living room, a soothing echo of natures liquid bounty outside. A pleasant side effect was that the stern right angles of my walls and ceiling were softened to more natural curves, and the harsh white paint was ornamented with patterns variegated brown and green. Delightful. |
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Late (4.10.06 12:58) You missed your calling, Cathexist my friend. There are estate agencies out there who would pay top dollar for creative writing of that calibre. |
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menace / Website (4.10.06 18:10) Should have used a bigger bucket. |
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Peanut / Website (5.10.06 00:25) I am very sorry to hear aboutyour roof and contents - but I am very very happy to see this blog up and running again. now please giveus an entry entitled "at home with Marxist Jim." |
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pog (18.10.06 11:09) Oh dear. My living room and kitchen in my teeny tiny attic flat are flat-roofed. You're scaring me now, late. Still, unlike Lilo, I don't have upstairs neighbours. Apart from the odd crow with hobnailed boots. |