A sound like a champagne cork made of mud. The entire contents of the pipe—two years of roof debris, the tennis ball, and what looked like a fossilised squirrel—shot out of the bottom into Gladys’s waiting bucket.
Arthur had two choices: call a plumber (who charged £300 just to look at a pipe) or watch his house dissolve into a puddle. He chose a third, stupider option: how to clear blocked downpipes
Not metaphorically. Yellow-brown water was actually trickling down from the ceiling light fitting, dripping onto his prize-winning marrows with a sad, rhythmic plink . The culprit was obvious: the downpipe outside. It was gurgling like a dying walrus every time a cloud passed over. A sound like a champagne cork made of mud
Arthur did. As the hot water hit the cold sludge, Gladys gave three sharp, angry pumps with the plunger. POP. He chose a third, stupider option: Not metaphorically