Our septic tank, Vladimir Pootin, underwent an endoscopy this morning, on account of Lord Malarkey and I having to run him through on an increasingly regular basis with the drain rods because he keeps backing up with, well, you know...effluent. Something was clearly amiss and needed investigation. Therefore, a jolly chap arrived at ten a.m in a little tanker lorry thing.
‘Hello!’ said I.
‘You’re from Kent, aren’t you?’ said the jolly chap.
And then he chatted away non-stop whilst going about his business with various pipes, cameras, rods, blowers, suckers and pointy things. By the time he’d given Vladimir’s pipes a very good and through seeing to, I had learnt that the jolly septic tank chap owned three collie dogs - all adopted - had left school at 15 with no qualifications, had travelled extensively around the UK and hence was very good at identifying regional accents, and that he kept shire horses which he took to various shows and fairs to raise money for charity.
The camera investigation showed that a section of the end of the pipe that goes into the septic tank itself had broken away and become lodged across a part of the opening. And there were other things caught up with it. Like a couple of drain rod attachments. And an actual drain rod. The jolly chap tried valiantly to dislodge the collection of drain rod accessories but because the pipe travels horizontally and then dips off at a 45 degree angle in a short distance as it meets the septic tank, the drain rod was going to be stuck forever.
Of course, the broken pipe would need replacing because it would only cause more and more problems. ‘I’ll bring my mini-digger next week,’ said the jolly chap, once he’d established that, yes please, I’d like him to do the repair job, ‘and replace two metres of the pipe that leads into the septic tank chamber. In fact, I’ll replace three metres, because the pipe comes in three metre lengths and it will save me having to cut a metre off.’
Sounds sensible. And then he said, ‘Would you contact the farmer and let him know I’ll be working on his land, please?’
I said, ‘To be honest, you could probably do the job and he wouldn’t notice. I sometimes walk the dog in this field and haven’t been shot at yet.’
‘Even so,’ said jolly chap, ‘just to be on the safe side. I’ve met some shi**y farmers in my time.’
We have a clause in the deeds to our house that allows us access to the field to maintain the septic tank but as a matter of courtesy I duly headed off to the farm up the road to let them know what would be happening. I tried phoning but it seems their landline is dead. It’s only a two minutes drive away.
On arrival, the farm was a hive of activity. It’s one of those massive modern dairy farms where all the cows live indoors for ease of milking. It also means they have a lot of slurry to deal with and there was a lot of slurry tank activity going on. I managed to stop someone and ask if any of the farming family were around. An appropriate person was pointed out to me and I risked life and limb crossing a section of the farmyard to reach him. But yes, he was fine with my request, and thank you for letting him know.
Back home I popped next door to update Don and Gill on the situation. They were happy with my pro-active stance as they were getting fed up with having to wield drain rods, too. I spent a happy couple of hours with them, chatting about all sorts and drinking tea. They will share the cost of the repairs.
Next week, I also have my hospital appointment. TWO…yes, TWO identical appointment letters arrived in the post on Monday to tell me so.
Here is Nell, on a tree stump, resting during a long walk…
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