I am at home, having taken the day off because it’s ‘Powerflush’ day. The plumber was due between 10am and 12pm but arrived at bang on 11, not that I saw or heard him as I was taking a shit. When I returned to my PC I saw him out the window about to drive off and was required to belt downstairs like a girl and bang on the side of his van as he started to pull away. He stared at me with piercing blue eyes like I’d just vomited on his shoe.

“I fawt you was aaht, I been banging for bleedin’ aahs.” He chirped, I half expected him to shove his thumbs into his belt and click his heels together. I let him in and made him a cup of tea, two sugars I hasten to add. As I type this he’s running over the flat like a young scamp, humming the first few bars of the Bionic Man theme tune ad infinitum, it’s already grating but, despite the whacking fee, I’m looking forward to my heating returning to some sort of normality safe in the knowledge the black/orange sludge is being sucked out of my house and, by default, curing a condensation issue in my loft which is causing my kitchen ceiling to crack.

Last night I went out for a few ales with a friend in the local, after our usual conversation -politics, sex and day to day grievances- I popped into Tesco on my way home to get some bread. Inside a young ASBO mother was addressing her daughter from one side of the store to the other. “They ain’t got none,” she croaked, an incomprehensible reply was greeted with another, “THEY AIN’T GOT NONE!” just as I rounded a corner.

The full force of her words piled into my ear, I stepped back and she glared at me. “It’s they haven’t got any…” I said darkly, my right ear ringing from her lack of decorum. The young mother looked at me with a mixture of bewilderment and hatred. “What?” She said with more than a hint of aggression. I stood my ground aware that the shop had fallen deathly silent. I could feel my cheeks prickle. “It’s they haven’t got any…’they ain’t got none’ is a double negative, in actuality you’re saying that they do indeed stock whatever item you’re insisting they do not…” I tailed off, someone sniggered. “Fuck off” She said without missing a beat, she looked me up and down with her top lip curled into her gums and moved away. “Charming.” I retorted weakly. I hung around the back of the store near the bleach and washing liquid until she’d made her purchases and left, my face crimson as a result of rage and embarrassment. At least I’ve done my bit for English language, I thought, and I weakly punched the air.

The blue-eyed boy has started the pump; I’ve been informed it will take 3 solid hours before the all the Fuck has exited, he’s running in and out of rooms pausing only to bleed the ‘rads’ followed by a pedantic groping at various areas of said ‘rad’. Such is the look of concentration on his face one would’ve thought he’s setting the controls for a shuttle launch.

I have learnt this from him though, in between the Steve Austin/Artful Dodger routine he will offer constructive advice, for example, if your ‘rads’ are hot at the top and cold at the bottom in the centre, your system is full of shit. This means that as sure as day follows night the sludge in the bottom of your ‘rad’ will eventually corrode through the metal, which is exactly what happened to me on Saturday night…

Christ I’m bored shitless, I can’t even play with myself…

Maybe just a quick fiddle whilst he’s not looking.