I woke this morning to what sounded like pouring rain. Bummer, I thought, envisioning a day, or at least half a day, stuck in the house. Cabin fever, damn! Nothing to do but to watch hour after hour of Trump being arraigned. Uplifting news to be sure, but once around will do (until the next arraignment).
So I brewed up my cup of tea, by which I mean that I dropped a teabag in my cup and filled the cup with hot water from the water dispenser, swallowed my before breakfast omeprazole capsule, scooped up my pack of cigarettes and headed out to the table on the front patio.
I was met by the sound of the downpour immediately outside the door--more than a downpour, really--a deluge--and the sight of the water cascading down the side of the wall, onto the table top, streaming across the bamboo screen, washing over my motorbike from front wheel to back.
And I gradually realized something was not quite right.
The street, I noticed, with some considerable stupefaction, was dry.
And yet the rain was spattering down just beyond my toes.
How can this be? Is it raining on only one half of my patio, and only upon the portion that is beneath the canopy? Is the canopy roof leaking? And oh by the way, why is the sky blue?
Ah ha! It is not in fact raining at all! It is, however, pouring--gallons and gallons pouring from the water tank on the roof of my house.
Shit! I was worried about rain, worried about cabin fever, but this is worse. This means a day without water, a day without a shower, a day without a flushing toilet, a day of dirty dishes stacking in the sink.
I call Louis, who actually owns the house, thank God, for I have no idea who I would call otherwise. I get no answer at first, as it is still only 6:30 in the morning, but within a couple hours she answers the message I left and says that Wayne, her significant other, is on his way.
In the meantime, the tank has run completely dry (no further waterfalls) and Wayne tells me to unplug the electricity to the pump. Upon his arrival, Wayne climbs onto the roof and determines that a pipe has become detached from the bottom of the tank. He gets this reattached and we restore the flow of water, but then he determines that the "pressure pump" is not functioning correctly. Damn again!, because this means we will need to wait for a repairman to replace the pump. Could be a matter of hours, could be a matter of days, who knows?
Given, anyway, that it is in fact not raining, nor even cloudy, I head out to drown my sorrows in coffee and Wayne heads home. But when I return in a couple of hours, Wayne has returned as well along with a repairman. Fantastic!
Before long, he has installed a brand new pressure pump and everything is running better than new. Hallelujah!
I putter around the house for a while, eat some lunch, and then have a shower.
Halfway through the shower, the water stops, but for a slight trickle. I have just finished soaping up my body and rubbing shampoo into my hair.
Shit!
Shit shit shit!
I trickle as much soap as possible from my body and hair and call Wayne.
Wayne calls the repairman.
Within a couple of hours, the repairman returns. He climbs the ladder. He removes the pump. He tinkers with the pump. He descends.
Okay, he says.
Okay?
Okay.
But what happened?
Hmm. Maybe engine too hot, he says.
Oh. But all good now?
I think, he says.
But will this happen again?
He scratches his chin, squints up at the tank.
Maybe.
Oh dear. Well, one day at a time, right? One day at a time.
.......
Update, one hour later: Pressure pump dead again.
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