Work on the longest running building project in the world ever has stalled again.
The plumber has disappeared. Done a dog in the fog.
The last time I spoke to him he accused me of sounding like a ‘second wife…’
I had phoned him to confirm his next visit to the site. According to the plasterer he is having problems at home.
No shit Sherlock.
And for the sake of a copper pipe, the battle is lost. The spark is waiting for the plumber. The plasterer is waiting for the spark. The decorator is waiting for the plasterer. . The roofer and the glazier are waiting. Just waiting.
Ad Nauseum. Ad Infinitum.
But yesterday the bathrooms arrived. Wrapped in clingfilm and delivered by two skinheads in a very large truck.
The driver with a clipboard was short, square and angular in a Sponge Bob Square Pants sort of way.
He was very smiley and very jolly, but this was a front I’m sure.
A man with a tattooed face can only pretend to be smiley and jolly for so long. It took me a while to notice the tattooed marks on his cheek. Three navy blue tears, in a slant, from the corner of his left eye. Of course once spotted, the tears became the focus, where else to look? Don’t mention the war? Don’t gawp at the tattoos.
Was the delivery man from Victoria Plumb a grinning assassin, an ex-con? Murder most horrid in Hale.
He gave me a pen to sign the papers on his clipboard. Love and Hate in big letters on his chippolata fingers.
And Oh, My, God, when he looked down to check my scribble:
FUCK on his right eyelid and YOU on his left.
Right love, he said, we’re off, where’s the best place to stop for a bacon butty?