The Ultimate Monday

Well - that was a Monday.
In fact, in Mondayrific terms, that was a right old, 24 carat, stove-your-own-head-in MONDAY.

Went out for lunch yesterday with d and Ma. d had pate for starter, took three bites and sent it back as 'bitter.' Apparently it was made two days earlier, and 'no-one else had complained' but generally, there are things in which bitterness can be a good thing. Beer, I'm reliably informed by people who like that sort of thing, is one of them. Pate - notsomuch. Rolling stomache upset has followed.

Our sink also pretty much died three nights ago. Running water down it was not happening. Also, running the washing machine meant a backflow that filled it with soapy, vaguely underweary water. Not good. Called five plumbers in a row Saturday morning, all of whom pretty much told me to do one, didn't I know it was the weekend, mate?

I did, as it happened. Strange to relate, when I tried telling the sink to pull itself together because after all, it was the weekend, mate, it had precisely buggerall effect.

This morning brought phone calls and assorted clueless Council bods, some in high-viz jackets (after all, you want to be clearly seen when investigating a sink), some in contradictory black jackets. They did the plumbing equivalent of kicking the tyres - running taps, stroking their chins, and in one peculiar instance, cupping the U-bend as if it were a treasured part of their own person - then announced they'd have to get the boys onto the roof to plunge things down the big drain.

That, apparently, could take some days.

Are we having fun yet?

Don't know what tomorrow brings (apart, possibly, from the delight of transporting a stool sample to the doctors by...erm...hand). Almost don't care. Just blech, whatever, next week, yadda yadda yadda.