My dear Dino,
I’ve not heard from the man yet from my interview this past Tuesday as he promised and so can only surmise he delved into my background just a little too deeply and has deemed feedback unnecessary, as I should have known better than to apply in the first place. I’ve heard of a job going at the London Zoo training Meer Cats to use computers – apparently the Army has suffered cutbacks and now is considering using them to act as lookouts and then to email in reports on enemy positions. I understand a server is to be buried and installed underground in a burrow with terminals in each burrow branch opening and linked via Ethernet and fibre. I suggested at my interview they ought to maybe consider Blackberries but it seems the meer cats can’t hold them properly and they keep pressing the volume button when climbing trees behind enemy lines and they’ve tried giving them belts with pouches for the devices but they keep slipping down as they don’t have discernable waists. Personally I think they could have persevered and tried braces or shoulder holsters but I didn’t push it as I didn’t want to appear too cocky at the first interview. If I do get the job though it’ll be nice to wear my camouflage jacket and slotted balaclava again. Any way I’d better go as the brunette is doing something with aubergines and seems to have forgotten the meat again. Hope you’ve got over your jet-lag now from your Bolivian adventure. Chin up fella.
D
24 March 2006
10 March 2006
It only took me two weeks to change the light bulb in our kitchen and this is how I did it
Brunette - "Oi ! when you've finished sglurping your breakfast, the bulb in the kitchen has blown again!"
Me - (cheerily) "Yes dear! just coming!" and as an after-thought "what wattage would that be dearest?"
Brunette - "You tryin to be funny!!??"
Me - (hesitantly) "umm, probably, umm dearest"
.
.
Anyway, I went to change the light bulb whereupon the light fitting just crumbled and broke in my hands. We needed a replacement light fitting for the kitchen. Cor a technical job I could really get into. I went out and bought a sparkly new chromed fitting from ye olde DIYe shoppe.
Wobbling on the kitchen three legged stool and on attempting to fit the fitting, I immediately noticed two things.
1) The wires coming down from the ceiling did not include an Earth - essential for this type of fitting.
2) The wire protruding from the ceiling was of the old 'rubber' type and the insulation was crumbling away.
We needed new wire ..This job was getting bigger very quickly. I may have to don my brown workshop coat and tape a pencil behind my ear - should impress them down at the hardware shoppe.
Upstairs in the box room, I merrily pulled up the carpet to reveal the floorboards which needed removing to allow me to replace the wiring. This then also revealed another problem.
1) The boards were crumbly and riddled with woodworm.
I scuttled back to the ‘olde hardware shoppe’ with tape measure in hand to purchase a tin of their finest 14 Star Wood Worm Treatment. At the same time I impressed myself by purchasing some lengths of replacement floor boarding and a reel of twin and earth.
I could tell there had been some DIY in this area before – aha! A rare chance to study someone else’s DIY techniques without them noticing me watching from the bushes. Under the floor boards should have been an albeit dark and dusty – space. Yes, space was missing. I had the dark and dusty but I was somehow missing the ‘space’ bit. It was full of old bits of copper 15mm & 22mm pipe, cut wires, broken terminal blocks, bits of brick, plaster and chunks of general masonry, spent matches, old floor-board nails, half of a workman’s cap (left side), a screw driver (large flat bladed) and a house number plaque for No.27 ! (we live at No. 32 so this was particularly worrying). Finally, there was the handle from a china t-cup. I rubbed my hands together – at least my DIY will be better than the last bloke I thought and hopped around the room on one leg (the other had gone to sleep seven minutes previously). I removed all the affected wood and carted it down stairs to the dust bin, dispersing infected wood dust around the house to ensure years of DIY pleasure for decades to come. I retrieved my workshop hoover from the shed and set about reclaiming the spaces between the joists then shut the door on the dust until the morning.
I sploshed the 14 Star Wood Worm Treatment around the area and, whilst it all soaked into the wood, read the instructions on the tin
"Keep away from cables and wiring"
"do not replace carpets for 6-8 weeks"
"Highly flammable - keep away from sparks and live wires"
"not suitable for wood"
"do not liberally splosh about the place"
yada
yada
I beetled down stairs and removed the relevant fuse (clearly pencilled “smorl bedrume”), from the Bakelite fuse-box on the wall, after, of course, first removing three tonnes of junk from in front of the afore mentioned.
Down in the sitting room the telly went off. We were bathed in silence for a short yet metric second …
"Hey! mum! the telly has gone off!" shouted the eight year old from the sitting room. I thought ... "Coo that boy’s bright – he’ll go a long way he will." Then called “Oops, wrong fuse”. I replaced that one and as none proclaimed to be for kitchen lights, removed the one marked "Dawn Stares Sokits". Prayers went out to the Mr Previous Owner - Hey presto, the box room light went out. Off I went again, up the ever lengthening stairs. I stopped and thought - Ah yes of course - although I'm working in the box-room (upstairs), the light fitting is the kitchen fitting (downstairs) - simple but deadly mistake. I'd better check and label those fuses - one flat Monday.
I examined the fittings for the light switch in the space under the floor boards and below in the kitchen - the two screws normally firmly twisted into a beam or some such were actually just poking through one of the lathes (yep lathe and plaster ceiling below). These were then prevented from disappearing into the kitchen by having a piece of wire wrapped around the two threaded screws.
After a rummage in my “Battleship Blue” shed I found just the piece of wood I needed. Pine I think, or maybe Leylandii or Horse Chestnut. Up to the box room and a short while sawing, planing and sanding later I fitted the best looking noggin you've ever seen. It fitted in all the right places, it had clean sleek lines and crisp edges. I’d waxed it as well so whom ever came after me could see the sheer quality of the DIY that I could do. Unfortunately while I was doing this, the pull-cord switch fell from the ceiling below and shattered into small fragments on the cold, hard kitchen floor. This then elicited a barrage of loud calling from below as the Brunette was mixing a practice batch of Yorkshire Pudding at the time and the shock of the crashing light switch caused her to have a sudden movement (momentous occasion) and consequently the batter mixture sprayed liberally around four walls and the Brunettes best Sunday outfit (its a Saturday).
Once I'd cleaned the kitchen, (it somehow became my job as the Brunette had to sit down and recover) I returned to the box room, gathered my tape measure, attached it to my trouser belt and popped out to the olde DIY shoppe once again - this time for a new light switch. As a rule, I’ve always found it best to visit the DIY shoppe looking as though I know what I’m doing, (hence the tape-measure) otherwise I get palmed off with something I don’t want and then have to find another shoppe to get what I really wanted in the first place, as I’m then too embarrassed to go back to the original shoppe to exchange the wrong thing for the right thing.
So, back up to the box room. Then down again to the kitchen – “up down up down up down like a whores drawers!” “What’s that?” “Nothing dearest, just up and down stairs a lot, that’s all”. I screw the new light switch through the ceiling and into my smart looking ‘noggin’. Beautiful! Both screws ‘do-up’ tightly. I trundle back up to have a look.
Back in the box room, something in the floor space sparks – “Woah!!” I jump back and fly down stairs – the fuse is not on the ironing board where I left it! “Err, Brunette?” I call tentatively, “Do you know where the fuse is that I left on the ironing board?” “Oh I put it back in the fuse box – I thought you’d finished with it” My mind wanders back to just the other evening. The Brunette was asking about my life insurance … I remove the fuse once again and place it carefully in my pocket.
Wires get replaced with proper 5A ‘twin & earth’, fittings get installed, dust and debris get brushed and vacuumed and all works wonderfully. Hoorah! The stairs light hasn't flickered since either, which is just a little strange. I cut the floor boards and screw them down – I don’t like using nails as I know I’ll only have to pull them out again and it’s always much easier when the boards are screwed down. Measure twice – cut once. Measure twice – cut once. Measure twice – cut once.
Basking in my success with the noggin, I examine the step down into the box room – turn of the century terraces have strange configurations sometimes - there really ought to be two steps as opposed to the one glopping great cliff in place at the moment. I mentally plan re-fitting the step and making two smaller ones to replace the one large step. “It’ll be a doddle love and it will be easier for you when carrying the baby” Brunette looks at me with that knowing but doubtful look of hers. “Why don’t we sit in front of the TV tonight and share a pot of ‘half-baked’?” she says, her steely look softening. I'm already thinking about replacing the shower unit and I spend the remainder of the day replacing my tools into their proper marked places in my shed and checking my stock of plumbing bits and pieces for next weekend - it shouldn't take long surely... just remove the old shower and put a new one in its place ... surely ...
Me - (cheerily) "Yes dear! just coming!" and as an after-thought "what wattage would that be dearest?"
Brunette - "You tryin to be funny!!??"
Me - (hesitantly) "umm, probably, umm dearest"
.
.
Anyway, I went to change the light bulb whereupon the light fitting just crumbled and broke in my hands. We needed a replacement light fitting for the kitchen. Cor a technical job I could really get into. I went out and bought a sparkly new chromed fitting from ye olde DIYe shoppe.
Wobbling on the kitchen three legged stool and on attempting to fit the fitting, I immediately noticed two things.
1) The wires coming down from the ceiling did not include an Earth - essential for this type of fitting.
2) The wire protruding from the ceiling was of the old 'rubber' type and the insulation was crumbling away.
We needed new wire ..This job was getting bigger very quickly. I may have to don my brown workshop coat and tape a pencil behind my ear - should impress them down at the hardware shoppe.
Upstairs in the box room, I merrily pulled up the carpet to reveal the floorboards which needed removing to allow me to replace the wiring. This then also revealed another problem.
1) The boards were crumbly and riddled with woodworm.
I scuttled back to the ‘olde hardware shoppe’ with tape measure in hand to purchase a tin of their finest 14 Star Wood Worm Treatment. At the same time I impressed myself by purchasing some lengths of replacement floor boarding and a reel of twin and earth.
I could tell there had been some DIY in this area before – aha! A rare chance to study someone else’s DIY techniques without them noticing me watching from the bushes. Under the floor boards should have been an albeit dark and dusty – space. Yes, space was missing. I had the dark and dusty but I was somehow missing the ‘space’ bit. It was full of old bits of copper 15mm & 22mm pipe, cut wires, broken terminal blocks, bits of brick, plaster and chunks of general masonry, spent matches, old floor-board nails, half of a workman’s cap (left side), a screw driver (large flat bladed) and a house number plaque for No.27 ! (we live at No. 32 so this was particularly worrying). Finally, there was the handle from a china t-cup. I rubbed my hands together – at least my DIY will be better than the last bloke I thought and hopped around the room on one leg (the other had gone to sleep seven minutes previously). I removed all the affected wood and carted it down stairs to the dust bin, dispersing infected wood dust around the house to ensure years of DIY pleasure for decades to come. I retrieved my workshop hoover from the shed and set about reclaiming the spaces between the joists then shut the door on the dust until the morning.
I sploshed the 14 Star Wood Worm Treatment around the area and, whilst it all soaked into the wood, read the instructions on the tin
"Keep away from cables and wiring"
"do not replace carpets for 6-8 weeks"
"Highly flammable - keep away from sparks and live wires"
"not suitable for wood"
"do not liberally splosh about the place"
yada
yada
I beetled down stairs and removed the relevant fuse (clearly pencilled “smorl bedrume”), from the Bakelite fuse-box on the wall, after, of course, first removing three tonnes of junk from in front of the afore mentioned.
Down in the sitting room the telly went off. We were bathed in silence for a short yet metric second …
"Hey! mum! the telly has gone off!" shouted the eight year old from the sitting room. I thought ... "Coo that boy’s bright – he’ll go a long way he will." Then called “Oops, wrong fuse”. I replaced that one and as none proclaimed to be for kitchen lights, removed the one marked "Dawn Stares Sokits". Prayers went out to the Mr Previous Owner - Hey presto, the box room light went out. Off I went again, up the ever lengthening stairs. I stopped and thought - Ah yes of course - although I'm working in the box-room (upstairs), the light fitting is the kitchen fitting (downstairs) - simple but deadly mistake. I'd better check and label those fuses - one flat Monday.
I examined the fittings for the light switch in the space under the floor boards and below in the kitchen - the two screws normally firmly twisted into a beam or some such were actually just poking through one of the lathes (yep lathe and plaster ceiling below). These were then prevented from disappearing into the kitchen by having a piece of wire wrapped around the two threaded screws.
After a rummage in my “Battleship Blue” shed I found just the piece of wood I needed. Pine I think, or maybe Leylandii or Horse Chestnut. Up to the box room and a short while sawing, planing and sanding later I fitted the best looking noggin you've ever seen. It fitted in all the right places, it had clean sleek lines and crisp edges. I’d waxed it as well so whom ever came after me could see the sheer quality of the DIY that I could do. Unfortunately while I was doing this, the pull-cord switch fell from the ceiling below and shattered into small fragments on the cold, hard kitchen floor. This then elicited a barrage of loud calling from below as the Brunette was mixing a practice batch of Yorkshire Pudding at the time and the shock of the crashing light switch caused her to have a sudden movement (momentous occasion) and consequently the batter mixture sprayed liberally around four walls and the Brunettes best Sunday outfit (its a Saturday).
Once I'd cleaned the kitchen, (it somehow became my job as the Brunette had to sit down and recover) I returned to the box room, gathered my tape measure, attached it to my trouser belt and popped out to the olde DIY shoppe once again - this time for a new light switch. As a rule, I’ve always found it best to visit the DIY shoppe looking as though I know what I’m doing, (hence the tape-measure) otherwise I get palmed off with something I don’t want and then have to find another shoppe to get what I really wanted in the first place, as I’m then too embarrassed to go back to the original shoppe to exchange the wrong thing for the right thing.
So, back up to the box room. Then down again to the kitchen – “up down up down up down like a whores drawers!” “What’s that?” “Nothing dearest, just up and down stairs a lot, that’s all”. I screw the new light switch through the ceiling and into my smart looking ‘noggin’. Beautiful! Both screws ‘do-up’ tightly. I trundle back up to have a look.
Back in the box room, something in the floor space sparks – “Woah!!” I jump back and fly down stairs – the fuse is not on the ironing board where I left it! “Err, Brunette?” I call tentatively, “Do you know where the fuse is that I left on the ironing board?” “Oh I put it back in the fuse box – I thought you’d finished with it” My mind wanders back to just the other evening. The Brunette was asking about my life insurance … I remove the fuse once again and place it carefully in my pocket.
Wires get replaced with proper 5A ‘twin & earth’, fittings get installed, dust and debris get brushed and vacuumed and all works wonderfully. Hoorah! The stairs light hasn't flickered since either, which is just a little strange. I cut the floor boards and screw them down – I don’t like using nails as I know I’ll only have to pull them out again and it’s always much easier when the boards are screwed down. Measure twice – cut once. Measure twice – cut once. Measure twice – cut once.
Basking in my success with the noggin, I examine the step down into the box room – turn of the century terraces have strange configurations sometimes - there really ought to be two steps as opposed to the one glopping great cliff in place at the moment. I mentally plan re-fitting the step and making two smaller ones to replace the one large step. “It’ll be a doddle love and it will be easier for you when carrying the baby” Brunette looks at me with that knowing but doubtful look of hers. “Why don’t we sit in front of the TV tonight and share a pot of ‘half-baked’?” she says, her steely look softening. I'm already thinking about replacing the shower unit and I spend the remainder of the day replacing my tools into their proper marked places in my shed and checking my stock of plumbing bits and pieces for next weekend - it shouldn't take long surely... just remove the old shower and put a new one in its place ... surely ...
It only took me two weeks to change the flapper valve on our loo and this is how I did it
“Lover?” the gorgeous brunette whispered in my ear “If I sit the kids in front of the telly and come back to bed for a while, do you promise to eat this hot, buttered, bacon sandwich?” It was of course a dream, and one from which I really didn’t want to surface.
Muffled voices from down stairs, “The loo won’t flush” more muffling and slightly louder voices “what’s he done to it?”, “bloody thing … COME ON FLUSH” sounds of persistent handle yanking – the type where you just know the handle will break off at any moment. Then silence. With the handle yanking session over (later I’d see the handle survived its ordeal) heavy footsteps appeared on the stairs. Not so muffled and becoming clearer by the footstep. “Are you still in bed?” Head around the door now, “I said, are you still in bed?” “yes dear, will you be joining me?” “No I bloody won’t – what’ve you done to the toilet? It won’t flush” “I haven’t done anything my love, I’ve been in bed” “I can see that. Get up and fix it ‘cos it won’t flush” “ok my equine brunette, I’m getting up now. You could pour some water down it for now to manually flush it” “Eh? How much water?” “Oh probably a gallon or two love, I won’t be long” Mumbled steps get fainter as the brunette descends the stairs once more. I hear mugs being moved about … the brunette calls up the stairs “how many mugs of water to a gallon?” Now, I could have said twenty, just to keep the brunette busy whilst I got up and dressed, also it would have taken far too long to explain the problems with the one-mug-at-a-time strategy but, I decided on option three and just called “ok love, won’t be a minute” and went back to getting my sock on without falling off the bed. The eight year old came up the stairs “the bog won’t flush and mums done a po …” “THANK YOU” I hastily interrupted, “yes I know and we call it a loo or a toilet in our family” “what?” “What, what?” “What do we call a loo or a toilet?” “Pardon?” “You said we call IT a loo or a toilet”. An eight year old brain at work is an awesome and rare event and he’d clearly forgotten what he’d just that second asked me. This was a somewhat strange conversation to have first thing in the morning, whilst sitting on the bed half dressed – even with an eight year old goldfish brain. Come to think of it though, maybe its not that strange, there must be many, many parents who notice conversations getting more and more difficult as their little sugar lumps race towards nine, ten and beyond. The question is really, do I persist and explain that the white porcelain bowl he so admirably and regularly misses in the bathroom is called a ‘toilet’, or do I divert his strange train of abstract thought and get him to do something vaguely useful. “Can you go down the road and buy a paper? – you can keep the change – ask mum for a quid” This should fox him. The newsagent is up the road and has been for at least the past 13 years to my knowledge but we’ll see how far he gets. Unlaced trainers scramble down the stairs to claim that ‘quid from mum’.
I took a peek around the bathroom door and quickly retreated deciding breakfast was required before anything else.
The cistern lid lifted off without any problem to expose the inner workings. There was an array of rusty bits, lime scale encrusted bits, plastic bits, remains of ‘blue-loo’ bits, a marble, a yellow Lego man with missing head, one dead bee, a large red ball on a long metal rod and a gallon or two of water. I gently moved the flushing handle to see all the levers and pulleys working. All appeared to move in unison but the water stayed where it was. I flushed more vigorously – the calm water remained. I began to yank. Then harder and harder. Rust began to fall off the inner parts of the handle mechanism and into the choppy but flush resistant water. Yanking like a man possessed I yanked to a crescendo of flashing arm movements. I sank back against the bathroom door, sweat forming on my brow and breathing heavily. What was I going to do if it did eventually flush? Would I tell the brunette to yank the handle a couple of dozen times really frantically and that it would be all right because then it may or may not flush? To be honest, if it didn’t flush with the first movement of the handle then it needed fixing so, it did absolutely no good at all to work myself up to a sweat but it felt good that I was at least doing something and they (the now huddled and whispering family) could tell I was doing something.
I knelt down and stuck my head as far as I could round the underneath of the cistern immediately recoiling, stumbling to the shower, fumbling for the tap in blind panic and drenching my head over the side of the bath. Now, I knew those firemen we see on the telly don’t really look quite so daft in their totally enclosed Germ Warfare Suits and I wished I had one. I slowly stood up and reached for the towel. I (remarkably) calmly called to the brunette that I wouldn’t even think of fixing the loo until it had been totally cleaned at least twice. The cleaner liquid and a cloth appeared through the gap in the door and then it closed again. I notice my knees are wet and realise all too late just where all the odd drips and splashes go over the weeks, months, years. I mentally shrug, recovering my composure, resigned to being germ ridden and smelly for a day or so … and silently vow never to have a carpet in a bathroom or anywhere near a toilet again.
I tore up the sodden carpet and rolled it as neatly as possible, touching it only with my finger tips and my boots. Calling to the brunette to get the front door open, I paused and waited for her confirmation. I dashed through the kitchen and the dining room – but, but “NO” the eight year old goldfish brain had arrived back with a newspaper and is now stood at the bottom of the stairs and directly in my line of sight to the front door “what doing?” he asked but by this time I was running at full tilt and could only shout “GET BACK”. He fell backward onto the bottom few steps as I rhino’d passed and on through into the sitting room and out the front door narrowly missing the milkman who was busily arranging milk bottles on my freshly tended annuals. The two year old was shouting out of the window “Yeah, Daddy winning yeah”. I tossed my carpet caber over to the right as I headed down the path and on into the street knowing our car would stop me. I thudded into the door and flattened the wing mirror, setting off the alarm. Brian, a couple of doors down, stopped polishing his car and called “Hi Derek, I see they’re building new flats in George Street then” as I collapsed against our car. Then adding “Ah, I see you’re sitting down then, Derek” as if to show off his talent for stating the bleedin’ obvious. The brunette came out and asked if it was our car alarm and the two year old was jumping up and down at the window yelling “YEAH yeah Daddy winner yeah”. Goldfish brain looked out of the front door and said “The bog won’t flush” I couldn’t take any more. I cut the top off a nearly empty, one gallon, washing liquid container, leaving a bucket sized vessel to be filled from the bathroom sink and used for flushing down the loo. Then I packed my tools away for the day, sank into a hot bath and then the sofa, in that order.
A day became three. The eight year old couldn’t understand how to flush the loo with the one gallon plastic washing liquid container.
I thought long and hard about the problem. Three days became a week …
I awoke that morning feeling suddenly and alarmingly alive. I was ready for action and capable of tackling anything. Before breakfast I’d turned the water stop cock off. Then turned it back on again when I realised I couldn’t wash or brush my teeth. Also that I would need to clean in and around the loo at least twice again before sticking my head anywhere near it. So, I turned the stop cock back on.
First of all, the cistern needed emptying. I had just the right tool to empty the cistern – a drill operated water pump. I’d seen it in Alan’s Hardware a couple of years ago and knew it would come in handy one day. And I knew exactly where it was – in my shed, under the workbench and in a wooden crate on the left – where the brunette couldn’t stumble across it and ask awkwardly “when did you get this?” and “what are you going to use this for?” I turned the stop cock off and organised my drill-pump. A few minutes later and the cistern was empty, except for a layer of lime scale and rust flakes.
It then took two hard fought hours to get the cistern off as the wing nuts underneath were rusted solid and by the time I’d got them both undone my fingers were bruised and hurting, covered in WD40 and the colour of rust, as was the toilet bowl and seat and the cistern. I lay the cistern on the floor. If I ever have to do this again I’ll soak the wing nuts in WD40 for a day or so first. I easily removed the siphon tube arrangement by undoing the large plastic nut on the bottom of the cistern and lifted the whole contraption out and onto the floor.
The old flapper valve dismantles quite easily but has the looks and consistency of an old and torn plastic sandwich bag – surely it has to be more substantial than this? I look around for something more substantial yet still pliable. I cut the flat side from the plastic container used for the flushing to now use as a flapper making sure it is a good fit but doesn’t chafe on the sides of the siphon body - the diyee shoppe didn’t stock them but my new stronger flapper will surely last for ever. I quickly make plans to make hundreds and market them. I have a brilliant idea for a TV advert campaign involving a stingray and a surfer. I visualise brightly coloured cardboard signs in DIYee Shoppes. So long as I can get hold of lots of empty plastic gallon containers I could be a millionaire. It’d be named after me - known as ‘The Flapping Derek’ – after the ‘Spinning Jenny’. I quickly reassembled everything and practised ‘dry runs’. It seemed to function as it should.
I turn stop cock back on. There was water coming from absolutely everywhere but I need to try my fabulous “Flapping Derek”. Disappointingly it takes three goes to flush and then it only flushed a bit and not even all the water from the cistern. I quickly dive under the kitchen sink and turn the stop cock off once more. I begrudgingly undo all the joints and seals, squeeze in plenty of Gutter Sealing Compound, and retighten the joints. Turn stop cock back on and two new leaks appear but the originals have gone away – at least for now. Once again I turn the stop cock off. All this is fast becoming tedious. Every five minutes someone wants to use the loo or wants to make a cup of tea or do the washing up. I have to admit to stamping my feet when the eight year old wanted to do some painting with his water paints. The brunette leaps to his defence but I counter with a brilliant “It’s the middle of July” I state the bleedin’ obvious; “he got them for Christmas, why does he need to do his painting now when I’m trying to fix the loo?” I plead. Her look stops my pleading in its tracks. I turn the stop cock back on and sulk out to the shed then wished I’d made a mug of tea first to take out with me.
I return after an hour to find painting wasn’t done as he got bored within five minutes and couldn’t decide what to paint. I turn the stop cock off.
After closely examining the fibre washers in the compression joints and the soldering skills of Mr Previous Plumber I decide to renew all the fittings and solder new joints, fit new fibre washers and new compression olives. As is normal with this type of work I quickly burn a finger on a recently resoldered joint but ha! The water is off so I can’t soak my smarting finger under cold running water – I hop around the bathroom with my hand under my armpit whilst calling to the brunette for help. She has gone for a rest upstairs and says it is my fault for turning the water off. The nearest water is in the cats bowl. I fall to my knees like some dying desert escapee and hold my finger in as little of the murky luke warm and slimy liquid as is possible while still gaining some cooling effect. I struggle to my feet and lurch back to the bathroom to finish replacing the joints and connections.
Whilst I was in the shed sulking, I rummaged in my plumbing bits box and found a brand new, still in a plastic pack, isolator valve. I carefully cut pipe under cistern 11 mm shorter (I measured it twice) position the isolator valve and tighten against the compression olives. There is no space between the radiator and the cistern but I get a little pressure on the spanners and do them up as much as possible. In my experience the compressions have to be done up as tightly as possible but joints with fibre washers just need to be finger tight then a quarter of a turn with a spanner as any more and they would distort and leak.
Turn stop cock back on – I can hear running water from somewhere … I run to the bathroom. Again there is water everywhere – blind panic search for screw driver (flat head not cross head) turn isolator valve off – there is only one leak but it could be from any one of three places. I stick a bowl under the dripping leak then clean up the standing water from bathroom floor and pack up for the day … this becomes another week.
Some days later and one afternoon, I visit ye local olde diyee shoppe to get a new ball valve assembly as the mounting thread had gone all messy and skewed on the existing one after so many attempts to stop leaks. I notice a special deal on towel heater radiators and make a quick decision to replace the rad that is too close to the cistern (I keep burning my arm on it when I’m sitting on the loo) with the towel heater as I can mount it higher meaning
a) I won’t burn my arm any more and
b) There would be enough space to tighten the compression fittings for the pipes to the loo.
Trudge home, head bowed, feet shuffling. I’m becoming older by the hour.
clean the area around the inlet hole and fit the ball valve assembly to the cistern as shown in diagram 1.8.D.
Turn Isolator valve off – stop cock remains on so the rest of the house can function while I work. Well, what d’ya know? The ball valve assembly is the wrong length and ball jambs between the siphon tube and side of cistern and I buggered it up trying to make it fit so can’t even take it back to ye olde diyee shoppe for the correct model. I sit and sob on the bathroom floor; but what’s this? I notice on the hastily discarded packaging, a note could this be the problem with most of my leaking joints?
I strip the whole thing down again and meticulously clean all the seals and joints.
A Long think and some cooking sherry later I measure the old ball valve – 13 inches from bottom to top. Wearily I slump into an arm chair and call for the local directory to check for plumbers merchants – brunette graciously reminds me “I told you to look in there first thing - a week ago”
I spy a pack of flapper valves on a hook by the door as I enter the crowded merchants shoppe – ten for about fifty pence. I make a lunging grab incase they’re the last pack on earth then clutching my pack of flappers I shuffle over to the counter and ask for a ball valve with bottom entry and it has to be about 13 inches from bottom to top. Lots of teeth sucking and head scratching later; they don’t have a special long ball valve with bottom entry but they say there is a merchant at the end of the trading estate who does have one. Payment made for pack of flappers I shuffle out to find the next merchant – they say they don’t have a long valve – “but” I tell them with desperation creeping into my tone, “the other place said you did” – “did they tell you what shelf it is on?” they ask and several other proper plumbers at the trade counter end of the shoppe laugh.
Anyway, they find one – a special silent fill model with special short ball and lever arrangement. I am expecting a special price by this time but it turns out to be surprisingly comparable to the one I got from the DIYee shoppe earlier in the day. I pay by cheque – I am told by Mr Important behind the counter “not many people use cheques these days” … I’m tempted to ask how I’m supposed to pay when I’ve got no money in my bank and at least with cheques I know I’ve got a couple of days to get some cash into the account, but I bite my tongue and just smile, lamely pretending to be some sad DIYer who doesn’t know what he’s doing…
Ridiculed but with special and correct parts I return home expecting the worst. A cup of tea is waiting for me as I walk through the front door with my purchases. I sit and read the instructions on the packets while sipping my tea.
The cistern is back together now and the loo flushes just fine although now I need to lay some vinyl tiles on the bare floor and there is still a bowl under a bend in the piping to the cistern because somewhere there is a leak which drips about once every two hours. Maybe I’ll be able to tighten the compression joints a bit when I get around to changing the radiator for the heated towel rail. If only I’d called a plumber two weeks ago, I’d have been sitting on my loo in comfort by now …
Muffled voices from down stairs, “The loo won’t flush” more muffling and slightly louder voices “what’s he done to it?”, “bloody thing … COME ON FLUSH” sounds of persistent handle yanking – the type where you just know the handle will break off at any moment. Then silence. With the handle yanking session over (later I’d see the handle survived its ordeal) heavy footsteps appeared on the stairs. Not so muffled and becoming clearer by the footstep. “Are you still in bed?” Head around the door now, “I said, are you still in bed?” “yes dear, will you be joining me?” “No I bloody won’t – what’ve you done to the toilet? It won’t flush” “I haven’t done anything my love, I’ve been in bed” “I can see that. Get up and fix it ‘cos it won’t flush” “ok my equine brunette, I’m getting up now. You could pour some water down it for now to manually flush it” “Eh? How much water?” “Oh probably a gallon or two love, I won’t be long” Mumbled steps get fainter as the brunette descends the stairs once more. I hear mugs being moved about … the brunette calls up the stairs “how many mugs of water to a gallon?” Now, I could have said twenty, just to keep the brunette busy whilst I got up and dressed, also it would have taken far too long to explain the problems with the one-mug-at-a-time strategy but, I decided on option three and just called “ok love, won’t be a minute” and went back to getting my sock on without falling off the bed. The eight year old came up the stairs “the bog won’t flush and mums done a po …” “THANK YOU” I hastily interrupted, “yes I know and we call it a loo or a toilet in our family” “what?” “What, what?” “What do we call a loo or a toilet?” “Pardon?” “You said we call IT a loo or a toilet”. An eight year old brain at work is an awesome and rare event and he’d clearly forgotten what he’d just that second asked me. This was a somewhat strange conversation to have first thing in the morning, whilst sitting on the bed half dressed – even with an eight year old goldfish brain. Come to think of it though, maybe its not that strange, there must be many, many parents who notice conversations getting more and more difficult as their little sugar lumps race towards nine, ten and beyond. The question is really, do I persist and explain that the white porcelain bowl he so admirably and regularly misses in the bathroom is called a ‘toilet’, or do I divert his strange train of abstract thought and get him to do something vaguely useful. “Can you go down the road and buy a paper? – you can keep the change – ask mum for a quid” This should fox him. The newsagent is up the road and has been for at least the past 13 years to my knowledge but we’ll see how far he gets. Unlaced trainers scramble down the stairs to claim that ‘quid from mum’.
I took a peek around the bathroom door and quickly retreated deciding breakfast was required before anything else.
The cistern lid lifted off without any problem to expose the inner workings. There was an array of rusty bits, lime scale encrusted bits, plastic bits, remains of ‘blue-loo’ bits, a marble, a yellow Lego man with missing head, one dead bee, a large red ball on a long metal rod and a gallon or two of water. I gently moved the flushing handle to see all the levers and pulleys working. All appeared to move in unison but the water stayed where it was. I flushed more vigorously – the calm water remained. I began to yank. Then harder and harder. Rust began to fall off the inner parts of the handle mechanism and into the choppy but flush resistant water. Yanking like a man possessed I yanked to a crescendo of flashing arm movements. I sank back against the bathroom door, sweat forming on my brow and breathing heavily. What was I going to do if it did eventually flush? Would I tell the brunette to yank the handle a couple of dozen times really frantically and that it would be all right because then it may or may not flush? To be honest, if it didn’t flush with the first movement of the handle then it needed fixing so, it did absolutely no good at all to work myself up to a sweat but it felt good that I was at least doing something and they (the now huddled and whispering family) could tell I was doing something.
I knelt down and stuck my head as far as I could round the underneath of the cistern immediately recoiling, stumbling to the shower, fumbling for the tap in blind panic and drenching my head over the side of the bath. Now, I knew those firemen we see on the telly don’t really look quite so daft in their totally enclosed Germ Warfare Suits and I wished I had one. I slowly stood up and reached for the towel. I (remarkably) calmly called to the brunette that I wouldn’t even think of fixing the loo until it had been totally cleaned at least twice. The cleaner liquid and a cloth appeared through the gap in the door and then it closed again. I notice my knees are wet and realise all too late just where all the odd drips and splashes go over the weeks, months, years. I mentally shrug, recovering my composure, resigned to being germ ridden and smelly for a day or so … and silently vow never to have a carpet in a bathroom or anywhere near a toilet again.
I tore up the sodden carpet and rolled it as neatly as possible, touching it only with my finger tips and my boots. Calling to the brunette to get the front door open, I paused and waited for her confirmation. I dashed through the kitchen and the dining room – but, but “NO” the eight year old goldfish brain had arrived back with a newspaper and is now stood at the bottom of the stairs and directly in my line of sight to the front door “what doing?” he asked but by this time I was running at full tilt and could only shout “GET BACK”. He fell backward onto the bottom few steps as I rhino’d passed and on through into the sitting room and out the front door narrowly missing the milkman who was busily arranging milk bottles on my freshly tended annuals. The two year old was shouting out of the window “Yeah, Daddy winning yeah”. I tossed my carpet caber over to the right as I headed down the path and on into the street knowing our car would stop me. I thudded into the door and flattened the wing mirror, setting off the alarm. Brian, a couple of doors down, stopped polishing his car and called “Hi Derek, I see they’re building new flats in George Street then” as I collapsed against our car. Then adding “Ah, I see you’re sitting down then, Derek” as if to show off his talent for stating the bleedin’ obvious. The brunette came out and asked if it was our car alarm and the two year old was jumping up and down at the window yelling “YEAH yeah Daddy winner yeah”. Goldfish brain looked out of the front door and said “The bog won’t flush” I couldn’t take any more. I cut the top off a nearly empty, one gallon, washing liquid container, leaving a bucket sized vessel to be filled from the bathroom sink and used for flushing down the loo. Then I packed my tools away for the day, sank into a hot bath and then the sofa, in that order.
A day became three. The eight year old couldn’t understand how to flush the loo with the one gallon plastic washing liquid container.
I thought long and hard about the problem. Three days became a week …
I awoke that morning feeling suddenly and alarmingly alive. I was ready for action and capable of tackling anything. Before breakfast I’d turned the water stop cock off. Then turned it back on again when I realised I couldn’t wash or brush my teeth. Also that I would need to clean in and around the loo at least twice again before sticking my head anywhere near it. So, I turned the stop cock back on.
First of all, the cistern needed emptying. I had just the right tool to empty the cistern – a drill operated water pump. I’d seen it in Alan’s Hardware a couple of years ago and knew it would come in handy one day. And I knew exactly where it was – in my shed, under the workbench and in a wooden crate on the left – where the brunette couldn’t stumble across it and ask awkwardly “when did you get this?” and “what are you going to use this for?” I turned the stop cock off and organised my drill-pump. A few minutes later and the cistern was empty, except for a layer of lime scale and rust flakes.
It then took two hard fought hours to get the cistern off as the wing nuts underneath were rusted solid and by the time I’d got them both undone my fingers were bruised and hurting, covered in WD40 and the colour of rust, as was the toilet bowl and seat and the cistern. I lay the cistern on the floor. If I ever have to do this again I’ll soak the wing nuts in WD40 for a day or so first. I easily removed the siphon tube arrangement by undoing the large plastic nut on the bottom of the cistern and lifted the whole contraption out and onto the floor.
The old flapper valve dismantles quite easily but has the looks and consistency of an old and torn plastic sandwich bag – surely it has to be more substantial than this? I look around for something more substantial yet still pliable. I cut the flat side from the plastic container used for the flushing to now use as a flapper making sure it is a good fit but doesn’t chafe on the sides of the siphon body - the diyee shoppe didn’t stock them but my new stronger flapper will surely last for ever. I quickly make plans to make hundreds and market them. I have a brilliant idea for a TV advert campaign involving a stingray and a surfer. I visualise brightly coloured cardboard signs in DIYee Shoppes. So long as I can get hold of lots of empty plastic gallon containers I could be a millionaire. It’d be named after me - known as ‘The Flapping Derek’ – after the ‘Spinning Jenny’. I quickly reassembled everything and practised ‘dry runs’. It seemed to function as it should.
I turn stop cock back on. There was water coming from absolutely everywhere but I need to try my fabulous “Flapping Derek”. Disappointingly it takes three goes to flush and then it only flushed a bit and not even all the water from the cistern. I quickly dive under the kitchen sink and turn the stop cock off once more. I begrudgingly undo all the joints and seals, squeeze in plenty of Gutter Sealing Compound, and retighten the joints. Turn stop cock back on and two new leaks appear but the originals have gone away – at least for now. Once again I turn the stop cock off. All this is fast becoming tedious. Every five minutes someone wants to use the loo or wants to make a cup of tea or do the washing up. I have to admit to stamping my feet when the eight year old wanted to do some painting with his water paints. The brunette leaps to his defence but I counter with a brilliant “It’s the middle of July” I state the bleedin’ obvious; “he got them for Christmas, why does he need to do his painting now when I’m trying to fix the loo?” I plead. Her look stops my pleading in its tracks. I turn the stop cock back on and sulk out to the shed then wished I’d made a mug of tea first to take out with me.
I return after an hour to find painting wasn’t done as he got bored within five minutes and couldn’t decide what to paint. I turn the stop cock off.
After closely examining the fibre washers in the compression joints and the soldering skills of Mr Previous Plumber I decide to renew all the fittings and solder new joints, fit new fibre washers and new compression olives. As is normal with this type of work I quickly burn a finger on a recently resoldered joint but ha! The water is off so I can’t soak my smarting finger under cold running water – I hop around the bathroom with my hand under my armpit whilst calling to the brunette for help. She has gone for a rest upstairs and says it is my fault for turning the water off. The nearest water is in the cats bowl. I fall to my knees like some dying desert escapee and hold my finger in as little of the murky luke warm and slimy liquid as is possible while still gaining some cooling effect. I struggle to my feet and lurch back to the bathroom to finish replacing the joints and connections.
Whilst I was in the shed sulking, I rummaged in my plumbing bits box and found a brand new, still in a plastic pack, isolator valve. I carefully cut pipe under cistern 11 mm shorter (I measured it twice) position the isolator valve and tighten against the compression olives. There is no space between the radiator and the cistern but I get a little pressure on the spanners and do them up as much as possible. In my experience the compressions have to be done up as tightly as possible but joints with fibre washers just need to be finger tight then a quarter of a turn with a spanner as any more and they would distort and leak.
Turn stop cock back on – I can hear running water from somewhere … I run to the bathroom. Again there is water everywhere – blind panic search for screw driver (flat head not cross head) turn isolator valve off – there is only one leak but it could be from any one of three places. I stick a bowl under the dripping leak then clean up the standing water from bathroom floor and pack up for the day … this becomes another week.
Some days later and one afternoon, I visit ye local olde diyee shoppe to get a new ball valve assembly as the mounting thread had gone all messy and skewed on the existing one after so many attempts to stop leaks. I notice a special deal on towel heater radiators and make a quick decision to replace the rad that is too close to the cistern (I keep burning my arm on it when I’m sitting on the loo) with the towel heater as I can mount it higher meaning
a) I won’t burn my arm any more and
b) There would be enough space to tighten the compression fittings for the pipes to the loo.
Trudge home, head bowed, feet shuffling. I’m becoming older by the hour.
clean the area around the inlet hole and fit the ball valve assembly to the cistern as shown in diagram 1.8.D.
Turn Isolator valve off – stop cock remains on so the rest of the house can function while I work. Well, what d’ya know? The ball valve assembly is the wrong length and ball jambs between the siphon tube and side of cistern and I buggered it up trying to make it fit so can’t even take it back to ye olde diyee shoppe for the correct model. I sit and sob on the bathroom floor; but what’s this? I notice on the hastily discarded packaging, a note could this be the problem with most of my leaking joints?
WITHOUT USING ANY JOINTING OR SEALING COMPOUNDS
I strip the whole thing down again and meticulously clean all the seals and joints.
A Long think and some cooking sherry later I measure the old ball valve – 13 inches from bottom to top. Wearily I slump into an arm chair and call for the local directory to check for plumbers merchants – brunette graciously reminds me “I told you to look in there first thing - a week ago”
I spy a pack of flapper valves on a hook by the door as I enter the crowded merchants shoppe – ten for about fifty pence. I make a lunging grab incase they’re the last pack on earth then clutching my pack of flappers I shuffle over to the counter and ask for a ball valve with bottom entry and it has to be about 13 inches from bottom to top. Lots of teeth sucking and head scratching later; they don’t have a special long ball valve with bottom entry but they say there is a merchant at the end of the trading estate who does have one. Payment made for pack of flappers I shuffle out to find the next merchant – they say they don’t have a long valve – “but” I tell them with desperation creeping into my tone, “the other place said you did” – “did they tell you what shelf it is on?” they ask and several other proper plumbers at the trade counter end of the shoppe laugh.
Anyway, they find one – a special silent fill model with special short ball and lever arrangement. I am expecting a special price by this time but it turns out to be surprisingly comparable to the one I got from the DIYee shoppe earlier in the day. I pay by cheque – I am told by Mr Important behind the counter “not many people use cheques these days” … I’m tempted to ask how I’m supposed to pay when I’ve got no money in my bank and at least with cheques I know I’ve got a couple of days to get some cash into the account, but I bite my tongue and just smile, lamely pretending to be some sad DIYer who doesn’t know what he’s doing…
Ridiculed but with special and correct parts I return home expecting the worst. A cup of tea is waiting for me as I walk through the front door with my purchases. I sit and read the instructions on the packets while sipping my tea.
The cistern is back together now and the loo flushes just fine although now I need to lay some vinyl tiles on the bare floor and there is still a bowl under a bend in the piping to the cistern because somewhere there is a leak which drips about once every two hours. Maybe I’ll be able to tighten the compression joints a bit when I get around to changing the radiator for the heated towel rail. If only I’d called a plumber two weeks ago, I’d have been sitting on my loo in comfort by now …
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