|What we did last night
||[Dec. 24th, 2010|11:55 am]
'Twas the night before the night before Christmas: Throughout where I dwell
Not a thing seemed abnormal apart from the smell.
Presents were wrapped (for the most part, at least)
In the hope that our relatives hadn't deceased,
When in from the kitchen arose such a splash
I climbed from the sofa to view the stramash,
And what did my horrified eyesight befuddle?
The kitchen invaded by dank smelly puddle.
A glance at the washing machine's drainage duct
Told me in a moment the plumbing was not functioning correctly.
Now wading, now mopping, now kneeling and swearing,
On buckets, on sponges, on damp bits of flooring.
From foot of the cupboard to door to the hall,
Now mop away! mop away! mop away all!
I took off the pipes leading down to the drain
And peered down the barrel -- the problem was plain:
The passage -- so narrow! The blockage how smelly!
The odour made stuff want to rise from my belly!
I took a coathanger, went on to expunge
The evil primeval unspeakable scunge.
The pipes, freshly rodded, refitted, connected,
We saw that our blockage was fully corrected.
I hope that your drains won't fill up with such shite:
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!
Note that this incident, in Bracknell, was just one day after the Sheffield washing machine finally died, which it's been going to do for about six years.
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