Drain-eau
If you were to ask us what makes living in Paris so great, Pegs and I could go on for hours about all of the delights that the City of Lights has to offer: delicious food, gorgeous architecture, easy access to destinations throughout Europe, lots of vacation time, and the list goes on and on. When it comes to personal service, however, the French rank slightly behind Colombian kidnappers in the level of helpfulness you can expect to receive. In a Michelin star restaurant you'll probably be alright, but try getting a plumber in on a weekend and you'll be lucky if they don't laugh at you before they hang up. Unfortunately, Pegs and I have had a lot more experience dealing with the latter than with the former.
Last Wednesday our tub started draining slowly, an occurrence that's become somewhat familiar in our household. I poured the better part of a bottle of drain cleaner into our pipes to try to flush them out and went to work. The next day when I stepped out of the shower the water was up to my calves and not going anywhere, so I called our building's management company and left a message to send someone over as soon as possible. When I didn't hear back I called again on Friday, and the manager told me that she had contacted their regular plumber and asked him to set up an appointment with me.
I rang the plumber up immediately, and he seemed genuinely perplexed by my request to come over as soon as possible that day. "But it's Friday," he protested, "and it's almost two o'clock. No one is available anymore." I asked whether he could come by during the weekend, and he chuckled and suggested that I call an emergency service, the kind that charges 500 euros just to answer the phone. I didn't really feel like taking out a personal loan to pay for a weekend plumber, so I asked him to come on Monday, to which he said he'd rather wait until Tuesday because he already had a job lined up in our neighborhood that day and it would be "much more convenient." I told him to be there on Monday and hung up.
That weekend, every time we ran the water in the kitchen it backed up into the bathtub, together with bits of decomposing matter that looked vaguely like waterlogged corn flakes and smelled remarkably like vomit. I had already elected not to shower on Friday in the hope that the problem would be fixed that afternoon, so by Saturday morning I reeked like a baboon butt. You couldn't have paid me to step into the toxic sludge floating in the bathtub, so in desperation I decided to take a sponge bath in the kitchen instead.
If you've never taken a sponge bath in a kitchen, take it from me that it's an experience you'd be wise to avoid. Although linoleum is a fairly easy surface to clean and won't be damaged by a little bit of water getting splashed on it, it does become a rather treacherous surface when slick with soap. Combine that with the acrobatics involved in washing out your naughty bits with one foot propped up on a waist-high countertop, and you've got a recipe for disaster. Fortunately I avoided slipping and breaking my neck, if for no other reason than the fear of putting Pegs in the awkward position of having to explain to the coroner what I was doing naked in our kitchen covered in soap suds with a hand towel wedged between my butt cheeks. Especially if the coroner wasn't available to come by until Monday.
Last Wednesday our tub started draining slowly, an occurrence that's become somewhat familiar in our household. I poured the better part of a bottle of drain cleaner into our pipes to try to flush them out and went to work. The next day when I stepped out of the shower the water was up to my calves and not going anywhere, so I called our building's management company and left a message to send someone over as soon as possible. When I didn't hear back I called again on Friday, and the manager told me that she had contacted their regular plumber and asked him to set up an appointment with me.
I rang the plumber up immediately, and he seemed genuinely perplexed by my request to come over as soon as possible that day. "But it's Friday," he protested, "and it's almost two o'clock. No one is available anymore." I asked whether he could come by during the weekend, and he chuckled and suggested that I call an emergency service, the kind that charges 500 euros just to answer the phone. I didn't really feel like taking out a personal loan to pay for a weekend plumber, so I asked him to come on Monday, to which he said he'd rather wait until Tuesday because he already had a job lined up in our neighborhood that day and it would be "much more convenient." I told him to be there on Monday and hung up.
That weekend, every time we ran the water in the kitchen it backed up into the bathtub, together with bits of decomposing matter that looked vaguely like waterlogged corn flakes and smelled remarkably like vomit. I had already elected not to shower on Friday in the hope that the problem would be fixed that afternoon, so by Saturday morning I reeked like a baboon butt. You couldn't have paid me to step into the toxic sludge floating in the bathtub, so in desperation I decided to take a sponge bath in the kitchen instead.
If you've never taken a sponge bath in a kitchen, take it from me that it's an experience you'd be wise to avoid. Although linoleum is a fairly easy surface to clean and won't be damaged by a little bit of water getting splashed on it, it does become a rather treacherous surface when slick with soap. Combine that with the acrobatics involved in washing out your naughty bits with one foot propped up on a waist-high countertop, and you've got a recipe for disaster. Fortunately I avoided slipping and breaking my neck, if for no other reason than the fear of putting Pegs in the awkward position of having to explain to the coroner what I was doing naked in our kitchen covered in soap suds with a hand towel wedged between my butt cheeks. Especially if the coroner wasn't available to come by until Monday.
6 comments:
Walking into the kitchen and seeing you in your full glory with your leg propped up on the garbage can was no fun for me either.
If it wasn't fun, then why did you laugh so goddamned hard? Huh???
To hide the tears.
for mankind.
On a side note for French labor relations
Société Générale says wayward trader Jérôme Kerviel lost the bank $7.2 billion. But that was last week. He's now on his way to cult celebrity -- and he still hasn't lost his job.
So did the plumber come on monday or tuesday? what did you do for showering on sunday (and possibily monday)? why didnt you just take a shower at your office...you say they have a gym, then they'd have to have a shower, right? your story, although quite amusing, baffles me.
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