A Little Story About my Bedroom

Watching phantoms



When my laundry basket is downstairs, waiting for fresh, but eternally stiff clothes to come from the line, or out of the machine, or conceal a bottle of vodka en route to my little lady's palace on the first floor of the Grot Hole where I live, it resides on the floor of the airing cupboard. So when it is performing one of these essential tasks and there is nothing on the floor of my airing cupboard, I throw my pants there, willy nilly. So I was most surprised to find this week, that my pants on the floor were soaking wet. I suppose my first thought stretched as far as "Mank!" But not much further.

Yesterday I was sitting in the living room. A rare luxury while the Bear is on holiday. Enjoying the space, the peace, the quiet, when I noticed a disturbance to this peace. Something was creaking. It's not the cat. She's outside sitting on the step, watching imaginary spirirts at the bottom of the concrete box which excuses itself for a garden. CREAK. The bees which have infested the chimney for the past three years are going about their buzzing, as usual, but not creaking. I can't smell honey. I have taken advice from an expert. The short version of which, is if I smell honey in the living room, or honey is dripping out of the gas fire, then the chinmey pot is about to fall down and / or catch fire. CREAK. No honey smell. Slowly it dawns on me that it isn't a creak, it's more methodical, like a drip. DRIP. The weird wooden box which is part of the wall and hides what can only be described as an electrical vomit, is soaking. DRIP. Acrid rust-red water is dripping from the ceiling. Which has erupted a big skanky pock mark, open and weeping like some abused acne. DRIP. I put a bucket under it. Job done. DRIP. Only it's not a ceiling on the other side, is it? In my little lady's palace, of vodka and pants based delight. Up there it's performing the role of being the floor in my airing cupboard.

Some airing cupboard. Airing cupboards are supposed to produce clean fresh, warm washing or gently and thoroughly heat bottles of red wine in the winter, until they are just right for drinking. But not THIS! This has a hot water tank in it. A totally useless, ancient, crumbling waste of space. We don't have any hot water in the house. Clarity dawns. Why do we not have any hot water in the house? Because the power to this cumbersome tank has, in the past and to this day, been severed. How long has this subjugated and forgotten example of uselessness been menacing from it's encampment of cosy hosiery? I don't know, but there is  another acrid rust-red stain on the ceiling downstairs in the pit, next the one with the hole in it, dripping onto the ugly box which is attached to the wall, where everything is wet. This protesting patch of mysteriousness is mouldy. It smells bad. The floor in the dank and frankly disturbing airing cupboard is uneven. That's right. It's uneven. It's gone rotten and it's giving way. The hole downstairs in the pit, which is exuding skanky wetness, is where the hulk of this tank is heaving a sigh of resignation and making it's way towards earth. Through my bedroom floor. Which is wet and rotten. Wonderful. Well it would have to be seriuos to call the Bear back off his holiday. This resonating peace is far too valuable to forsake. But my bedroom floor is giving way. But peace. Drip. PEACE. DRIP. Fuck. So I call the cavalry.
the Cavalry: "Alright?"
Princess Dontrockmypeace: "Um... yeeeeah?"
The scene is relayed, the body of evidence is ridiculed and we agree that if the tank falls through the floor in the night, it will be really funy. Thank goodness for that, for a minute I thought I was in danger of being involved in a serious conversation. So I turned off the water taps and tried my best to ignore the dripping. It's still achingly full of liquid mind you. I wouldn't call it water at this stage. I had a quick peer into the bucket this morning, downstairs, in the pit, under the ooze. It looks like someone has been bleeding into it. What a delight. I'm missing an artist friend's Private View for this. For the cavalry to come round and survey the damage. More likely point and laugh and then I'm definitely going for pizza. It's a Dr Pepper moment... What's the worst that can happen? What else is there to do about such a thing? Crap knows. I'm going for pizza.