He took a breath. He was Frank Duckworth, for goodness’ sake. He’d unblocked the main drain under the Oasis Leisure Centre during a ska concert. He’d cleared a collapsed pipe using nothing but a coat hanger and sheer spite. He wasn’t about to be scared off by a bit of antique plastic.
He hauled his high-pressure water jet to the edge of the shaft. It was a beast of a machine, capable of firing water at 3,000 PSI—enough to pulverise fatbergs and, presumably, send antique dolls to kingdom come. He fed the hose down, aimed the nozzle into the chamber, and shouted into the pipe:
Frank sighed. He’d heard it all: false teeth, wedding rings, a lost iguana named Trevor. But singing drains? That was a new flavour of madness. Still, the woman—Mrs. Albright of Bath Road—offered triple rates. Frank grabbed his rodding kit, his high-pressure water jet, and a battered torch. He kissed his sleeping terrier, Barry, goodbye and stepped into the storm.
It was “Danny Boy.”
For ten seconds, Frank held the jet steady. When he finally released the trigger, the chamber was empty. The water swirled lazily, carrying away fragments of lace and shattered smiles. The singing did not return.
Then Frank saw the source of the scrape. At the far end of the chamber, a fourth doll was dragging something towards a narrow outlet pipe. It was a bundle of wet wipes and cooking oil, the size of a rolled-up carpet. The doll was building a blockage. Deliberately.
He took a breath. He was Frank Duckworth, for goodness’ sake. He’d unblocked the main drain under the Oasis Leisure Centre during a ska concert. He’d cleared a collapsed pipe using nothing but a coat hanger and sheer spite. He wasn’t about to be scared off by a bit of antique plastic.
He hauled his high-pressure water jet to the edge of the shaft. It was a beast of a machine, capable of firing water at 3,000 PSI—enough to pulverise fatbergs and, presumably, send antique dolls to kingdom come. He fed the hose down, aimed the nozzle into the chamber, and shouted into the pipe: drain unblocking swindon
Frank sighed. He’d heard it all: false teeth, wedding rings, a lost iguana named Trevor. But singing drains? That was a new flavour of madness. Still, the woman—Mrs. Albright of Bath Road—offered triple rates. Frank grabbed his rodding kit, his high-pressure water jet, and a battered torch. He kissed his sleeping terrier, Barry, goodbye and stepped into the storm. He took a breath
It was “Danny Boy.”
For ten seconds, Frank held the jet steady. When he finally released the trigger, the chamber was empty. The water swirled lazily, carrying away fragments of lace and shattered smiles. The singing did not return. He’d cleared a collapsed pipe using nothing but
Then Frank saw the source of the scrape. At the far end of the chamber, a fourth doll was dragging something towards a narrow outlet pipe. It was a bundle of wet wipes and cooking oil, the size of a rolled-up carpet. The doll was building a blockage. Deliberately.
© Copyright Micro Focus or one of its affiliates