We recently experienced a plumbing catastrophe here at Chez Wilson.
We’ve had “issues” with our main floor toilet for some time. In fact, just last spring I had to take a day off work after my husband had a virtual geyser of filth erupt in his face an hour before a big meeting. The plumber declared that a major blockage in the sewer line was the culprit, but it had cleared of its own accord and all was well. Flash forward to this Sunday morning. When I left the house for a bike ride, Doo was just settling down to a cup of coffee, some local news, and plans for a productive day. When I arrived back two hours later, the poo had hit the fan. Literally.
Due to yet another blockage, raw sewage had overflowed out of the bathroom and into the back hallway and our oldest son’s newly-carpeted room. It had also seeped down into the air vents where it proceeded to drip out of the light fixtures into our finished basement, right onto an heirloom pool table. Doo had managed the worst of it – the house smelled of Clorox rather than eau de Port-O-let and there were only a few “chunks” left on the floorboards– but was in such a state that all I could do was laugh. Finally! A major household calamity on his watch!
For once, he’d had to find every towel in the house to sop up the sludge. He’d had to race downstairs with garbage cans and garage-only buckets to collect the leaks. And he’d had to phone the plumber and give up his morning to wait out the four-hour service call window. It was wonderful!