I had a burst pipe — as you do …… and there was sufficient water cascading over the street, to make me think of “Waterfalls” by TLC.

I blamed the neighbour and thought it was their problem.

Unfortunately it appears that my taps and important things connected to my water supply is on their property.  The pretty rainbow that was forming from all the water exiting my property, though pretty, was going to start to get expensive in terms of water usage.

I am normally quite a resourceful person, but when I am under a bit of strain and stress, then my reaction is not dissimilar from Chicken Little and screaming about THE SKY IS FALLING.

I seriously turn into a total imbecile with few skills and no ability to problem solve.

My neighbour called me this afternoon and made it clear that  the water was from my water mains (who knew I had water mains) was rather a lot.  And I needed to action it in with a bit more vigour than I was presently attending to the matter.

I called a friend – as you do when you are sitting waiting for your son’s cricket practice to finish {at the exact same time a cricket ball hit my car.  I am not sure which I was more suprised at, the cricket ball hitting my car, or the fact that these boys could hit a ball.  Which travelled that distance.  That besides.)  Friend gives me various numbers of plumbers in the area.

Trying to contact a plumber after 17h00, and trying to keep hysteria out of your voice is quite a trick.

Anyway, called three, found one who would pop around tomorrow afternoon — like quite late.

I was not sure that I had that much water in which ever reservoir water comes from. I tried to sound desperate – easy to do with three kids in the car, all going ape shit, whilst you are trying to have a phone call.

What is it about kids and escalating noise and total madness that ensues when you make or take a phone call?

They won’t speak to you for 4 days other than the grunts and the requests to wipe their bum, take a phone call, make a phone call and suddenly all three are orators of fever pitch proportions?

This story is starting to go off on a tangent.

I arrive at home and there is this guy standing next to his bakkie, and I think “please let this be my plumber ….” or if that is not working, then “please let this guy be my stripper instagram I booked for myself.”

And it was.  The plumber, not the stripper.

You know you expect Homer Simpson to arrive – the standard jeans a bit too low on the arse, the shirt fitting a bit too snugly, and not quite covering up the beer boep, and that general sense of “disregard for good grooming and body hygiene” one has become accustomed to when you call a plumber?

This guy. Did not get that memo.  It was all a bit giggly and arms flapping, and using a squeaky voice. That was me.  He was all calm and smiles.  At some point I think I offered to buy him a drink …. I decided at some point to stop speaking and just stare at him.

I told my friend and she said “why didn’t you take a photograph” — yep, that would have been less weird.

I think at some point I was hoping he would not be able to fix the shower of water and it would wet his shirt …. and you know your mind sort of wonders off when you are standing in a cul-de-sac with three children, and your shirt on back to front (because you dressed wrong this morning, and have just realised that it was actually back to front.)

I have never been one to google my plumber and hit the images button, it seems that everyone eventually gets to this point.  I am at that point.

I have been thinking about walking around my house and randomly breaking things, so that I can call a plumber to come over and sort out my plumbing.

{apologise if this post went off a bit randomly …….. I have been self medicating, and I don’t always get it right}