Spent the morning ripping up floorboards in an effort to locate the source of our mysterious drip. To no avail. Plumber turned up. Ripped up some more floorboards, declared everything dry but wanted to hear this drip.
We waited. The house in silence. 10 minutes later, after turning the heating on and off, jimmying the radiator thermostats open and closed and bashing some pipes with a spanner… nothing. No sound. Between us we concluded that whatever we’d done had fixed the problem. We sat in silence for another 5 minutes, just in case. Still nothing so I thanked him and he went on his way.
Our bowls of soup for lunch were soon joined by an instantly recognised sound. The damn drip was back! I’ve had the floorboards up again and can see nothing untoward. So it’s either just the pipes moving together or it’s a drip in the middle of the wall and is nothing we can do anything about until it shows itself.
These are the days of our lives. Ha, feckin ha.
In other news my hygienist gave me a gold star and put my name in the red book (the red book is the good book, the black book is for bad boys and girls). OK, she didn’t really but it felt that way as she inspected my teeth “Ohhh well done. You’ve been good, they look lovely” she fluttered.
Mind you, still didn’t stop her hacking and prodding and buffing them in her particularly vicious manner “ohh a little bleeding, dear dear”. Still, I take what solace I can in the fact that she is rather top heavy and has the habit of nestling my head between her ample bosom*. Such small pleasures. In fact I was so deeply ‘nested’ in there that when her tummy rumbled I felt the vibrations in my head.
Men. Pathetic. Aren’t we. Not to mention shallow. It’s OK. We don’t deny it.