Friday 18 March 2011

Comic Relief (Red Nose Day) today.  To mark this day, here is one of my blog entries from long ago for you to enjoy all over again:

Thursday 28 June 2007

A troubling affair this evening with the psychotic swan that blights my life on a regular basis.

He is a complete head-case. The two young ladies employed by the Environment Agency to maintain the rivers and their banks once told Maisie that he is the most dangerously-crazed nutter that they've ever encountered. And they once had to catch and remove a pike from the water, so they know of what they speak.

The swan's equally nut-job wife has managed to hatch nine cygnets, so daddy is extra-tetchy at present. Actually, the much milder-mannered swan on the private lake behind the fence has a wife who is sitting on babes as I type this. He wasn't swimming too close to her the other day, so perhaps they have had words. Personally, I suspect the psycho-swan has been playing away from home and may have forced himself upon the lady. I wouldn't put it past him. He could well be the real father of those eggs. If they hatch and grow up to be large and white, with long slender necks and orange beaks, we shall know the sordid truth...

This evening, I was being delightfully entertained by a group of young ducks. One poor lass managed a total of eleven - ELEVEN!! - eggs earlier this year. All of them hatched, foxes and rats kept away, and each duckling has survived to maturity, I am happy to say. I like ducks. They are harmless and they amuse me. I was finding particular glee in watching the eleven adolescent ducks mercilessly goading the evil swan. Three or four would swim up to him quacking until he turned on them, shouting and using words inappropriate for the ears of children, while chasing them and flapping his over-sized wings. The ducks would be just too fast for him and he would give up, only to have three or four more of them pop out from under the river bank right behind him. The eleven of them were a perfect example of a team working in unison to annoy a git and he rose to it every time. A lady watching from the bank was very worried and said that we should stop the swan; he was trying to kill the ducks. He would have killed them, if he'd caught them, but it only took a few minutes' observation to see that those little lads knew exactly what they were doing. The calm nearby presence of the ducks' mother proved that psycho-swan-baiting was an oft-practised game.

Of course, while the white-feathered-wacko was wasting his energy on cheeky ducklings, the stupid oaf was leaving his own wife and children entirely unattended. I could have gobbled up the lot of them and he wouldn't even have noticed. But I know enough about ladies with pups to leave WELL alone. Kipling was right: the female of the species is more deadly than the male. Besides, watching the hated swan repeatedly falling prey to the ducks' pranks was far too funny to miss.

Unfortunately, when he was growing tired, the swan spotted me laughing and started paddling angrily in my direction.

Oh sh*t.

He accosted me before I could slink away. He demanded to know what I was laughing at. "Nothing, Sir." I replied.
"You were laughing at those little b*st*rds." I assured him that he was mistaken. He repeated his original question.

Perhaps - on pondering this with the benefit of hindsight - I should simply have told him the truth. Instead I explained that I was laughing at the thought I'd just had, which was that if I had a face like those of his wife and children I would shave my bottom and learn to walk backwards. For some reason, the evil beast took exception to this and flew at me, howling in rage. I (bravely) shrieked in terror and my partner quickly put herself between me and the irate swan. She sheltered me with her body while the swan attempted to assault me in the most foul manner. A tactical withdrawal was clearly in order.

"I hope all your children have really tiny willies!" I screamed at the flapping swan as my partner dragged me away from the scene, "And that INCLUDES the girls!!"

At this point, my partner scooped up all 20kg of me and legged it.

For her bravery I will award her, for one night only, an extra half-inch of duvet. I hate that swan.

Good night.

 

Looking back over my earlier blog entries, I am somewhat shocked to discover that I have become less buoyant, less witty, less tolerant.  In short, I am become a whingeing old git.  I shall try and mend my ways from now on...  Why am I more moved by Comic Relief this year?  Perhaps I have grown a little more 'human' than formerly... Perhaps it was because I witnessed celebrities whom I admire (and some whom I have interviewed for magazine articles) debase themselves in the worthy cause of fundraising.  Or perhaps it was because I viewed a clip where a 15-month-old baby girl with the same name as my partner almost died from malaria - but was saved with equipment provided by Comic Relief.

 

No matter what we do - whether it is the fabulous Miranda Hart cooking and dancing, Radio 1 DJ Chris Moyles broadcasting the longest-ever radio show in history - or a little child donating his 50p pocket money - we can make a REAL difference.  There should NEVER be starving babies in this world while others have a few extra pence to themselves.  MY partner and I donated what little we could.  I urge you to visit http://www.bbc.co.uk/rednoseday/ and do the same.  Thank you.

 

Good night.

Friday 11 March 2011

Well - I did have prepared for you, this evening, an account of my rehabilitated (good) behaviour, an angry encounter with a representative of the builders' firm ("How would you rate the quality of the works undertaken by us?"  "Get out of my house.") and (finally!) the thirty-fifth instalment of "The Evolution of Jasper".

Not so this evening, however.

Instead - all of my thoughts are now turned towards my Japanese friends.

I cannot bark how devastated I am by the immense earthquake, the resulting tsunamis and aftershocks experienced by all within that Pacific region.

8.9 on the Richter scale.  Dear G*d.  I wish there was something I could do or bark to make everything better.  But not even the most mighty amongst us can take issue against Nature.

To my friends in Japan and other affected areas - HEIWA  - or: 

Peace.

With my compassion,

Good night.

Sunday 6 March 2011

At last the wretched saga of my home improvements is at an end.  My partner and I have spent much of this weekend in restoring our house to some semblance of order.  Photographs will be posted, when all is once more as it should be.

For the time being, I sense (from those of you kind enough to comment on my previous post) a certain keenness to learn the truth behind my recent spanked bottom.  Sometimes, dear reader, it concerns me to learn that, however much care I take in producing intelligent prose for the delectation and edification of the great minds of our time (including, obviously, your good self), my most popular postings invariably involve me in getting in some manner hurt, punished, detected in mischief, or hoodwinked by an evil predator.  Perhaps my life would be easier if I simply posted a variety of clips of me falling over, banging my head on stuff, being pecked by a pheasant, etc...  But my partner says that it is good for me to post accounts of my various mishaps.  She says I should find it to be a cathartic process.  Well, I don't know about that.  AND my partner's emergency Vodka supply had been placed well and truly out of paws' reach.  Grrrowl...

That barked, however, I cannot deny you the sorry relation of my late misdemeanour. 

For several days prior to the incident I had been quietly slipping away from my partner in order to investigate a most delightful and intriguing scent.  My nasal talent told me that a recently-deceased deer was not too far away - and a big 'un at that.  On my third foray, whilst my partner was occupied in playing football with clot-headed doggy-chum Ewan, I actually found it.  Big, fresh and deliciously meaty.  On the previous two occasions I had returned to my partner's side after her calls.  Not so on THIS day.  I had a whole flank of fresh venison all to myself - and suddenly I found myself to be terribly hard-of-hearing.  I wasted no time in getting to work on my prize, ignoring the increasingly angry calls and whistles of my partner (which, of course, I could not hear). 

Hearing an approaching soft tread through the woods, I glanced up to see Ewan carefully putting his football down at the edge of a moss-covered tree trunk.  He padded over.

"Jasper, your mummy is calling for you."  he said, all wide-eye earnest innocence.  "You need to go back to her."
"My mummy is NOT calling for me." I replied, irritably.  "And the reason for that is that I am a pure-blooded Staffordshire Bull Terrier."
"Yes, but..."
"That means that my father was a Staffordshire Bull Terrier - "
"Oh, yes, but..."
"And my mother was a Staffordshire Bull Terrier.  I must therefore conclude that it is my human companion to which you refer - and she is NOT my mummy.  We are equal.  She is my partner.  And SHE can take a running jump."

Ewan could not have looked more shocked if I had suddenly struck a match and set fire to his whiskers.  I don't think he had ever brushed up against the concept of disrespect before.  I don't even think the word "disrespect" was in his vocabulary (actually, there are a vast number of words and concepts not in Ewan's vocabulary - but let us not pursue that further).

"Yes... anyway..." mumbled Ewan, recovering himself, "Your mummy is calling for you and you have to go back."
I was just about to invite Ewan, in the time-honoured fashion, to occupy himself elsewhere when I was suddenly hauled off the deer by the scruff of my neck and flinched as my bottom received a short, sharp smack.  Ewan politely averted his eyes, although I could see he was still peeping at the proceedings from the corner of one eye.
"Back to the path - now!" hissed my irate partner, "And don't you ever disobey me like that again.  You are supposed to set a GOOD example for Ewan.  I am VERY angry with you."  On and on she continued, whilst I endeavoured to look suitably contrite.  It didn't escape me that Ewan, under the guise of downloading a wee-mail, took the opportunity to help himself to a few good mouthfuls of the tasty red venison.
"Look what Ewan's doing!"  I interjected.
"Never you mind what he's doing - I'm talking to YOU!" replied my partner, crossly.  "Ewan!" she called, turning around, "Stop it; we're going back to the path.  Go and get your football!"  Ewan eagerly complied, dashing off to fetch his ball and then rejoining us as we picked our way back to the path.
"Little creep." I muttered under my breath, ignoring him as we returned through the woods.  Ewan suddenly sidled up to me.
"Jasper!" he murmured, his voice muffled by the ball he held in his mouth, "That was MEAT back there!  We should go back to eat it."
"Oh, bl**dy h*ll, well done, Lassie,"  I hissed at him.  "If only I was as quick thinking..."
"Shhh!" whispered Ewan, "I'll distract your mummy and then we can have the meat!"

This I had to see.

Ewan began dancing about like a loon, dropping the ball, and jumping madly in front of my partner.
"What on Earth...?!" she said to herself.  I began to wonder if Ewan's tactics might actually work and I slunk behind a large Yew tree, trying to evaluate the best possible method of doubling-back on my partner and returning to my feast.  Unhappily, my partner was on the watch for just such a manoeuvre and clocked me straight away.
"Pack it in - the pair of you!" she ordered.  "Both of you back to the path - now!!!"  Ewan meekly retrieved his football and trudged, shame-faced, back to the path.
"Sorry Jazz." he mumbled.
"'S'alright Ewan."  I sighed.  It wasn't his fault, after all.

It was not the spanked bottom that irked me so, nor even the fact that I was denied the succulent flesh of the deer.  Oh no.  It was the fact that Ewan had witnessed the whole.  And that was the worst of the entire piece.

Suffice it to say that I have been impeccably-behaved ever since.  That should lull my partner into a false sense of security until the next tasty deer falls to the ground,  hehehehe...

Good night.

Tuesday 1 March 2011

Just when you thought it was safe to go back into the bathroom...

... you find sharks circling there still.   Yes:  my partner and I are STILL beset by "builders".  I was awakened this morning by the sound of my pretty young neighbour, Rosie, shouting at some of the very same fellows about some damage which they had inflicted in her house.  I was rather intrigued to listen, actually.  I have only ever managed to get a few words out of her myself, before she starts shyly giggling and then runs away.  She does stare at me a lot though, and always comes to the fence to see if I am in my garden - but always with the same resulting giggles and evasion.  Mad.  As I ear-wigged on the proceedings I was pleasantly surprised to find that she was quite articulate.  Her voice was so sweet and melodious, however, that it was odd to hear her using it to be angry.  I totally agreed with the West Highland lassie, however.  Here is a summation of what has happened since I last barked with you, dear reader :-

Work continued to progress slowly, on occasion because contractors forgot to put units on their lorry when leaving the depot (a series of little notes left in the kitchen for my partner revealed the truth - although the kitchen bloke was nice (and quite handsome, according to my partner, although that is no excuse as far as I am concerned).  I am prepared to be generous with regard to the kitchen fellow, however, as he also left little notes for ME.  He is therefore forgiven for his part in these crimes.


Following a request from the contractors', my partner and I agreed that their decorators could work in the property over Saturday 19 February as they were so far behind. That morning, however, prior to the decorators’ arrival, we found another leak in the bathroom.  Happily, however, the decorators were able to fix the leak.  These gentlemen (said decorators) were Polish, with a smattering of English, but both delightful young men with a high quality of professionalism, work ethic, and resulting finished tasks.  The decorating was the only part of the whole business which has, thus far, proceeded without a hitch.  I could comment further - I choose not to.
The whole process thus far had been extremely irritating and distressing. But I was sadly mistaken in my belief that my partner and I had seen the worst of the business.
On the evening of Thursday 24 February my partner and I arrived home after a night out to discover more water on the bathroom floor. It seemed to have originated from the bathroom radiator, which was now positioned at a distinctly slanted angle to how it was formerly fixed to the wall, although I could not detect any more water coming from the radiator pipe at that time. At the same time, my partner noticed that two large boxes which had been placed in front of our bedroom door had been moved (the one formerly at the bottom was now on the top and vice versa). I followed my partner into our bedroom and was, quite frankly, stunned by what I found. Our duvet was absolutely saturated.  And, for once, I was NOT to blame (indeed, not even a Blue Whale has that much wee in him).  When my partner touched the duvet, water readily seeped out.  It was abundantly clear what had happened – the bathroom pipes had obviously been leaking once more, presumably more seriously this time and whoever was in the room at the time had gone into our bedroom and taken the duvet from the bed to stem and mop-up the water.  As if this were not bad enough, the soaked duvet was then placed back on our bed!

Water had soaked from the duvet through my sheets and into my mattress.  The duvet and bed-sheets were filthy, smelly and water-stained.  As it was late at night, my partner and I had no option but to sleep on the floor with a cushion and a blanket (actually, my partner slept on the floor - I slept in my comfy armchair, but don't tell my partner that).  My partner has had to throw our duvet away as goodness only knows what the water was contaminated with, but it was extremely unpleasant.

Alas, that is STILL not the end of the matter.  Our blundering builders had forgotten to re-install our washing machine yet again, so another weekend without that - we had to go back to my partner's parents' house in order to do a load of washing so that my partner could have clean knickers.  I wondered aloud as to why she didn't follow my sartorial example - but, apparently, there are different laws for humans in this country...

We had to telephone the contractors again yesterday morning for yet another leak in the bathroom, from the same radiator pipes.  And now?  NOW?  We have water from the taps; we have a new, clean duvet (provided by my partner's mother); we have heat from our boiler and cupboards in our kitchen.  What we don't have is half a bath and no water whatsoever from the shower.

AND - if all this weren't enough - today, at work, I got a telling-off and a spanked bottom - all in front of Ewan.   Grrrowl.  I'm going to go and sniff-out my partner's emergency Vodka supply.

Dear friends, I am very cross indeed.

Good (ha!) night.

Wednesday 23 February 2011

Well, a week has passed since my partner and I returned to our own home.  And yet STILL the building-works are ongoing.  In general, I consider myself to be a patient man, but these works are enough to try the patience of the most placid of dogs.  Ewan, my marshmallow-brained canine friend, even.  I have only ever seen him mildly irritated on a single occasion - and I've known him for well over three years now - but even he would have been reduced to enraged, frenzied swearing at the wretched business.  Last Friday brought the discovery of yet ANOTHER leak in our bathroom pipes, decorators in the house with us on Saturday, and the frustrating discovery that the plumber had forgotten to re-install my partner's clothes washing-machine (it's a bit like a television, but with endless repeats).

In the meantime, the bathroom in Eddie's house has been completed, Archie the Jack-Russell's bathroom likewise, and work has commenced on Rosie's house next-door.  WE have a decorated kitchen, a partially-decorated bathroom, dust-covers and boxes everywhere, and no curtains or flooring in either room.  Grrrowl.  My partner is part-way through a strongly-worded letter of complaint to the Housing Association.  I am only letting her write it a portion at a time, as it makes us both very angry and I fear for her blood-pressure.

Let me return now to the happier topic of my friend Ewan.  You may recall the last time his name came up between us.  It was with the horrific realisation that, despite medical and scientific precautions, pea-brained Ewan may have succeeded in impregnating his long-term, belovèd basket-mate, Fizzy the pretty black Labrador.  After a holiday of some duration, Ewan and Fizzy returned to the workplace.  I concealed myself in the rear office, wanting to scope out the situation before I blundered and put my paw in it with Fizzy.

I watched as Ewan, his tail wagging wildly, settled himself beside his partner's desk and began to wash his paws.  Fizzy trotted to her favourite spot on the opposite side of the room and gently laid herself down with a sigh.  I peered closely at her.  There was no discernible swelling of her belly or growth to her milk-dispensers.  No sign, in fact, of pregnancy whatsoever.  I wondered if I dared to feel relief.  I thought that -

"Jasper." said a voice, suddenly, from behind me.

"Aiiieeeee!" I screamed, startled, almost jumping clean out of my own mouth.

"Bl**dy h*ll, Ewan!" I gasped crossly, turning around and trying to regain my breath.  "Don't do that!!!"  For a tall dog, Ewan had an incredibly soft tread.

"Sorry!" grinned Ewan, wagging his big daft tail.  "What are we watching?"
"Fizzy and Ewan." I muttered absent-mindedly.  I was still struggling to get back my composure.
"Oh.  Right.  Brilliant.  Yes." nodded Ewan, squeezing up next to me and staring at Fizzy.  After a few minutes of further study, it was clear that the lady was not "with-pup".  I sighed, heavily - mentally closing the door on that particular traumatic episode.  Ewan, however, continued his vigil, scanning the other office while occasionally shaking his head, sniffing the air and muttering to himself.  I watched him until I could bear it no longer.
"Ewan, what ARE you doing?!"  I asked.
"Well," explained Ewan, with a careful lick of his nose, "I can see Fizzy there - but I've looked and looked and I can't see Ewan anywhere."
"Are you being serious?"
Ewan turned and looked again.
"No." he announced, finally, "He's definitely not there.  Shall we look outside?"

"Um... no, Ewan, it's alright.  Let's not worry, eh?"
"Oh.  Alright.  Never mind, Jazz.  I expect he'll turn up soon."

The boy never ceases to astound me.  Just when I think I've heard the stupidest thing a canine could conceivably utter, Ewan plumbs yet further depths...  It doesn't mean I love him any the less for it though.  I wouldn't swap him for any other chum in the World.

I am hoping that, the next time I write a journal entry, my house might be once again complete.  But I shall not be holding my breath...

Good night.

Thursday 17 February 2011

I find that it is possible for a human to say 'sorry' without sounding in the least bit apologetic.  I refer, of course, to the ongoing saga of my home "improvements" and a telephone conversation between an un-named representative of the building firm.  I will not belittle you, my dear reader, with further details of that unsatisfactory discussion.

Suffice it to say that I am still here.  Well, of course, I am still here.  I mean that I am here in the here of my partner's parents' house, as opposed to the here in my own home - when I AM both here - and here.  I think I've explained myself clearly - though I'm certain of fewer and fewer things these days...  Anyway.

The fruit of today's toil seems to have been several half-installed kitchen units and an hand-scrawled note from someone calling himself "Lee", apologising for the fact that he forgot to put half of the kitchen fittings on his lorry when leaving his depot this morning.
As if these tiresome struggles were not enough, they have also indirectly caused me much in the way of humiliation.  It commenced on the first night of my stay here.  At home, my partner and I each have one side of a large double bed.  Our refuge in my partner's parents' guest room is only a single bed - and a small one at that.

Imagine my distress, dear reader, at 4.45am one morning when I stretched out my supple limbs, yawned, and rolled over - only to find myself plummeting floor-wards, hitting the carpet sideways-on with a dull thump.  My partner was instantly awake and offering comfort tinged with sympathy.  To recoup a little of my vanished pride, I pretended that I had been going to get out of the bed anyway, to go to the toilet.  Dozily, my partner clambered out of the bed and we headed for the stairs.

At home - our proper home - we have a curved staircase.  When descending it is eight stairs down, turn to the right, then four steps down.  In our temporary refuge, the staircase was a straight thirteen stairs down - top to bottom.

Still mostly asleep, I led the way downstairs with my door-unlocking/opening-capable partner in-tow.  I am sure you can guess what happened.

Yes.  Eight stairs down, turn to th-DONK! "Urrrrhhhh...."  Jasper walks clean into the wall in his sleep-addled state.  My partner had the tact and good grace not to laugh, giving my bruised skull-cap a tender and soothing kiss.

A small SINGLE bed.  How the mighty are fallen.  How came the mighty Jasper Horatio Stafford to this?  To such indignity?  Witness the following photographic image.  It may distress the more sensitive among my readers - but the truth must be told, disgusting though it is.  How?  I ask you.  How is a man such as I supposed to EXIST in such conditions?  :-

I know.  So sick, it's almost obscene.  I am sorry that you had to see this.

More to follow....

Good night.

Sunday 13 February 2011

I am writing this entry not from my own home (aka " Jasper-Horatio Stafford's House of Pain and Pleasure") but from the residence of my partner's parents; to whither my partner and I have decamped for the immediate future.  I am almost unbarkably livid.  I am NOT the kind of man who goes running back to mummy - and you may be sure that my partner is equally annoyed.

You may be aware that my partner and I are currently in the midst of having our kitchen and bathroom completely gutted and all-new ones built in their stead.  "Hurrah!" was the initial cry.  "How delightful."  Not so now though.  Oh no.

I will explain.

Originally, the work was scheduled to commence on Tuesday (8 February).  Shortly before Christmas, we received a letter to say that the work was put back by a day to the Wednesday.  No problem there.  Then, a few weeks before the builders were due to start, the firm sacked one of their main contractors for incompetence and we had to take a day off work to meet the new contractor and re-select our kitchen colour scheme and style of units.  Well.... alright then.

Two builders arrived at the house on Wednesday, around mid-morning.  They were pleasant enough, liked me greatly, and acted efficiently.  My partner and I popped out for a few hours, leaving them to it.  When we returned, the builders had gone - and so had our kitchen and bathroom!  The water had been reconnected, but there was plaster-dust EVERYWHERE.  Grrrowl.  After a couple of hours had passed with no reappearance of builders, my partner telephoned the firm's office.  Oh no, came the reply, those fellows were just there to take everything out.  Different builders will be coming tomorrow to begin the new installations.  "But," protested my partner, "I have to go back to work tomorrow!  How are they going to get in?!"  Eventually, she elicited a promise that someone would be here to collect a key before she and I departed for work the following morning.

We waited.  And, after we had finished that, we waited some more.  Finally, we sighted a builder going into Eddie the Rottweiler's house (Eddie's partner and her boyfriend are having a new bathroom).  My partner dashed over and gave him a key.  We managed to be only slightly late for work.

As we pulled into our parking space that evening, the first thing we noticed was that the builders had left lights on in the house, using electricity that we have to pay for (at this point it is perhaps relevant to state that my partner presently has £5 left for us to live on this month), as well as the fact that an incredibly annoying high-pitched beeping noise was sounding constantly.  My partner turned to me and wondered aloud how much work had been accomplished in our home that day.  Upon entry, it was hard to ascertain whether or not ANY work had been done.  Closer inspection revealed that an electrician had been in (there were new plug-points and switches, as well as new smoke-detectors and extractor-fans).  It wasn't long before the irritating shrill noise from outside began sending us over the limits of endurance (my partner assumed to begin with that it was the electricity key-meter from next-door.  These money-hungry meters emanate such a tone when funds are running low, to warn householders that, unless fed, all power to the home will be cut-off.  A bit like a cat demanding its dinner).  My partner went outside to take up the matter with our neighbours, only to discover that the peals seemed to be issuing from a large plastic sack beside our wheelie-bin, containing the workmens' waste from that day.  She made a closer investigation - and uttered extreme, though justified, profanity at what she found.

Yes.  The clowns had thrown our old smoke-detectors - with their batteries still in them - into the rubbish sack, and tossed plaster-dust, scrapings, bits of wood and any old sh*te in after them.  The thing about fine plaster-dust is that, in many ways - it is just like smoke.  G*d knows for how long those bl**dy alarms had been going off and tormenting our neighbours.  My partner had to go through the whole sack by hand, getting scratched and filthy, to retrieve the smoke-detectors and remove the batteries.  She was not pleased.

And thus dawned the weekly miracle that is Friday.  Off we went to work, thinking that better things would be awaiting us on our return.  Sometimes, dear reader, I wonder why I bother with optimism, I really do.

No further progress seemed initially evident in the kitchen after a fleeting glance so my partner proceeded upstairs to look at the bathroom.  She found that a new bath, lavatory and washbasin had been installed.  MY attention, however, was arrested by the kitchen.  I wandered in and sniffed around - something didn't smell right and there was an odd clicking sound.  As my partner returned downstairs, something hit me on the head.  "Erm... you might want to come and have a look at this." I wuffed hesitantly.
"What's up in there, Jazz?" replied my partner, entering the kitchen and switching on the light.

Oh poo.

Water was steadily dripping through the kitchen ceiling (which is beneath the bathroom), and had clearly been doing so for SOME TIME.  A small bulge was also forming around the source of the drips.  Double-Grrrowl, which is mild compared to some of the remarks on the subject made by my partner.

My partner endeavoured to contact the "emergency out-of-hours helpline" of the building firm (though it was only 5.40pm) - no-one was there and mobile 'phones had been switched off.  Hmmmnnn...  Eventually, my partner gave up and telephoned our landlords' helpline.  She spoke with a very helpful young man named Asif who, to be honest, was our first encounter with someone efficient throughout the whole business.  He summoned a repair-man, who arrived after a couple of hours, and we took some pictures of the damage whilst we were waiting.  Our repair-man did his best, but struggled to comprehend quite how the incompetence of his havoc-wreaking colleagues had been achieved.  Ultimately, all he was able to do to cease the flow into the kitchen was to disconnect our water and heating until Monday.  Had we no other options, my partner would not have been able to go to the lavatory for the whole weekend.  I offered her some space in my favourite pee-patch in the garden, but she wasn't tempted.

My partner's parents kindly offered us sanctuary, and here we now are.  We can do our laundry, cook our food, and have our baths.  But that doesn't mean that we are not very cross indeed.

This, I suspect, is not the end of the sorry saga.  Updates will be posted.

Grrrowl.


Good day.