Given Tuesday's avocado bathroom debacle, it was with some trepidation that I called J the plumber tonight... in fact if I hadn't had someone call me on Friday with a central heating problem that I haven't a hope of fixing myself (though, encouragingly, I'm pretty sure I know what's wrong), I might not have called at all.
But he sounded pleased to hear from me, and told me that tomorrow I am changing the taps in that very same bathroom. It will be like revisiting the scene of an old humiliation, only not so old. What happens, I said, if I can't get the bath taps off? Jo, he said, there's only one thing I can say to you: they've got to come off, so you'll get them off. Oh, I said. Right.
We went out for a Sunday evening bike ride with added Pizza Express, and when we got back there was some copper pipe on the front path and two sets of taps and a bag of fittings tucked under the ceanothus.
Mild terror. That's what I'm feeling.
But to offset this, I have the warm, warm memories of last night down the Exeter Hall, where we attended the first Terrastock Tea Party. Where I learnt that if you come across a large number of men with long hair and beards all hanging out in the same place, they're either survivalists or members of United Bible Fellowship. If they are Irish, it's the latter, and you're in luck. Also playing was Tara Jane O'Neil, with whom I was a tiny bit smitten, and that doesn't happen very often, and Sharron Kraus, who delivers amazing acid ballads with a perfect folk singer's voice. Some of it was hypnotic, some of it was noisy, most of it you could lose yourself in, and that doesn't happen very often either. Lovely.
joella
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