“Drain’s gone again, Eamonn. The whole lane’s a lake.”
He found the break in the pipe—a cracked collar where a hawthorn root had forced its way through, thirsty for the water that ran from Mrs. Delaney’s washing machine. He replaced the broken section with a new piece of PVC, backfilled the hole with gravel, and smoothed the tarmac over the top. blocked drains meath
You could feel the sharp scrape of a collapsed pipe. The spongy give of a fatberg built from a dozen neighbouring kitchens. The sudden, gritty grind of roots—hawthorn, usually, or a spiteful little willow that had no business being near a drain. Today, he felt roots. “Drain’s gone again, Eamonn
Meath in March was a wet dog of a place. The grass was the colour of old fivers, and the sky sat low on the hills like a lid on a pot. He finished his tea, pulled on his heavy bib-and-brace overalls, and kissed the photograph of his late wife, Nuala, on the sideboard. He replaced the broken section with a new
He fed the rods down, feeling for the block. This was the part Fiachra never understood. Why don’t you just use the jetter, Da? he’d say. The jetter was a powerful hose with a nozzle that could blast through anything. But Eamonn preferred the rods. Because the rods told you a story.