I live my life in a state of perpetual, if thinly spread, fear, ie I tend to worry about virtually everything, a lot. Many a time I will wake in the middle of the night in abject terror over some future scenario that is almost certain to come to pass, and contemplating ever wilder and more impractical solutions. Unsurprisingly then, the other night, in raging summer temperatures, in the midst of a fierce thunderstorm I was suddenly jettisoned from a scary dream and into an equally scary wakefulness.
In the dream, brown, filthy water was cascading down from the ceiling of my house. This has actually happened to me twice before in this house, once thanks to incompetent plumbers and once because of a broken or malfunctioning something or other on or adjacent to the water tank. Sitting bolt upright in my dark and stuffy bedroom, I envisaged what would happen if – no when, for of course I am catastrophising – this occurred in the middle of the night.
The muppet neighbours with their trillions of friends and relatives and their million large vehicles would once again have parked a jeep/all terrain vehicle/Rolls Royce/army tank so as to obstruct my water-meter cover, which is out in the road. Either their big, fat, plebeian tyres would be right on top of the cover or their big, fat, plebeian car would be right over the cover.
If the former, I would be knocking on their door attempting to rouse them in the middle of the night. Their baby would wake up and scream, but naturally they wouldn’t: they seem immune to their own baby. (If only I was.)
If the latter I would be laid out full length among the puddles and weeds trying to reach under their vehicle to lever or heave up a metal cover which even brawny plumbers have had trouble with. Then I would be trying to wrench some sort of flooded underwater handle a quarter (or might it be half?) turn to the right (or could it be left?) in the hope that this would shut off the water.
I spent some time, bolt upright in the thunderstorm, hatching plans to prevent this scenario. I would, I decided, look on the internet for some sort of specialist traffic cone – preferably a blue and white one with Water Meter! Official! stamped all over it. I would sneak out there when, hopefully, the Muppets were not spying of me out of their front window, and place the cone over my water meter. Do not to park on it, Muppets. I then envisaged male Muppet coming round and lecturing me, terrifyingly, for – what? Something or other.
Either that or the (expensive) specialist traffic cone would simply disappear into Muppet Mordor – that heap of half-finished projects, wrecked garden, spare washing-machine drums, motorbikes, speedboats, dog poo and smouldering bonfires – never to be seen again.
Then I realised I could instead buy a small tin of luminous bright blue metal paint and sneak out there when they were not looking and paint my water meter cover blue. This would take longer to accomplish than the placing of the cone, the risk being that someone, or several someones, would emerge and ask me what I was up to – and laugh – but would have the advantage that they could not steal luminous blue paint, once applied.
By this time it was daylight, and plan C dawned. I could call a plumber and ask him to fit some sort of water-supply-cutting-off-thing inside my house! Then, if filthy brown water were to come gushing through my ceiling in the middle of the night, I wouldn’t have to throw myself upon the Muppets’ mercy at all – Muppets circumvented – I could just toddle down to my kitchen and turn it off.
The plumbers came this morning. It took them about ten minutes to fit a snazzy little handle under the sink and they charged me an awful lot of money – twice as much, apparently, because it is a Saturday. They didn’t mention that when I phoned them, or I would have waited till Monday.