Repeating on me.

“What goes around Alice, comes around”. I don’t think Hubby quite understood the sentiment of that statement.
“What are you talking about?”, I asked, standing at the kitchen window and looking at the devastation in the garden.
“Well,” said Hubby, pondering. “ I think it means what has happened before will happen again”.
“It doesn’t mean that at all”, I said, slapping my forehead.
“What then?” Hubby asked looking both wounded and confused.
“It’s more karmic.” That was the wrong word to use. Hubby suddenly looked utterly bewildered.
“Oh, don’t worry your pretty head about it but basically it means that if you behave in a particular way i.e kindly, then you will be repaid by kindness or conversely nastiness, if you were nasty in the first place”.
“Oh”.
“It does not mean that if you have paid thousands to repair a patch of your two hundred year old garden wall then expect the rest of it to fall, with dramatic results into your garden, months later.”
Once again I looked out of the window at the slate and rubble, ivy and God knows what that was obliterating half of my garden. My enormous and very expensive terracotta pot and its huge palm tree that I’d bought as a big treat when we’d moved in, was lying forlornly on its side, partially covered by detritus. My garden furniture, lawn, rosemary bush, rhododendrons, clematis and banana tree were wiped out by wreckage. A doll’s plastic arm poked grotesquely out of the debris. It looked like a scene of a natural disaster from the News at 10.
I kept trying a mantra of ‘It’s only a wall, it’s only a wall’ but it was no use. The spectacle of it combined with the horrific possibility that it could have fallen the other way onto the pavement and onto some poor, unsuspecting passer-by was making me feel sick and there was no alternative other than to reach for Bach’s Rescue Remedy.
“Come on darling” said Hubby gently massaging my shoulders, “We’ll get it sorted”. I dropped the liquid onto my tongue and waited for calm. It lasted a nano second. Here came the storm.
“Mum”, said the 14 year old walking into the kitchen, “I’ve just flushed the loo and it’s making a funny noise”.
Hubby and I immediately swung our heads around to look at each other just as cartoon characters do when they both think of the same thing at the same time. The scrambling music that accompanies such an action was almost audible as he and I scarpered through the kitchen, into the hall, through the dining room and up the stairs. Given what had happened with the wall, we could now foresee a torrent of water and whatnot pouring through our sitting room ceiling. As it has done in the past. Twice. Swiftly followed by the ceiling falling down.
On entering the bathroom however we were immensely relieved to find that the Saniflo loo had not overflowed but that it was indeed making a ‘funny noise’.
“Stand back”, said Hubby, heroically, “I’ve dealt with this before, I’ve got it covered”. Hubby sounded as though he were about to do battle with a particularly ferocious dragon but I was not going to argue. I find it exceptionally sexy when a man takes charge and mends things.
“Fetch me a bucket, old towels and such like”, were his instructions. It seems men require the same equipment whether they are unblocking a loo or assisting with the birth of a baby. I did as I was bid before returning to my more traditional role of kitchen maid.
Forty minutes later Hubby found me folding laundry.
“Sorted?”, I asked beaming up at him.
“Nope, I’ve wrapped my hand in. It’s a job for a specialist”.
“You’re kidding?” I said, glumly. I think I was more disappointed that my hero had not been able to address the situation than our upstairs loo was out of action and would now have to be mended by an engineer.
“Nope, it’s well and truly kaput”. Hubby rifled through the kitchen drawers.
“What are you looking for?”
“Harry maskers. I need to seal the loo seat so that no errant bum sits on it by accident and causes all sorts of unmentionable horrors”.
Retrieving a sock from the bowels of the washing machine, I then stepped down into the kitchen and once again reached for the tincture that would hopefully ‘help me cope with balancing life’s ups and downs’.
“Oh my God. Oh my God. Let’s move. Let’s by a new house. One of those brand new executive things. Better still let’s rent. Let’s move to Australia. Nothing’s old there. It’s warm; we wouldn’t have to cope with this freezing weather. Our money would go further. Would the Australian Navy have you? Let’s do it. That’s it, a new decade and a new life. I’m going to Google it”.
Hubby grabbed my wrist and wrestled the rescue remedy from me.
“You’re manic Alice. How much of this have you taken?” He read the packaging.
“It says four drops onto the tongue as it ‘assists you return to a more positive outlook when you need comfort and reassurance’. A more positive outlook Alice? That means keeping things in perspective when walls come down and lavatories break. It does not suggest, even in the small print, a radical lifestyle change with the possibility of emigration to Australia. Now breathe into a paper bag and chill out.”
I have been through several paper bags since. Especially given the very negative response from both the insurance company and the rubble collector. Good to know then that, when the proverbial poop literally hits the fan, the Saniflo plumber with his optimism and bleach, a cuppa and a piece of cake was able to get my loo flushing with impunity.