(Latest in an ongoing series of homecare disasters)
This one looked so simple. The cold tap on my bath had stopped working. In itself this is no great surprise- the water round here is harder than a shark with a flick-knife and things tend to get scaled up. "No problem" I thought. "A spot of gentle persuasion will shift the scale and get things going again".
So I fish a torque wrench out of my toolbox, fit it on the tap-head. Gently, but firmly, I started rotating the tap control back and forth to grind down the scale jamming the threads.
Metal fatigue's an unpredictable bugger, isn't it? There's a loud "Crack!". Now I no longer have a tap. I have a fountain. Cue sprint to the stopcock and the first of many uses of the expression "****".
Stage 2.
Go to B&Q. This is always a mistake. I see the tap I want, but the curresponding order number reads "Basin tap", not "Bath tap". Amateurs. I take it to the till, and spend far too long attempting to explain this basic error to the acne-scarred, knuckle-dragging, slack-jawed ****wit schoolboy who was clearly trained in customer service by a sociopath. Become spectacularly acerbic with him, but it's just water off a duck's back. Receive taps.
Stage 3.
Drive home. Through a blizzard. That was fun.
Stage 4.
Make the entertaining discovery that while the taps are indeed bath-taps as I had requested, they are of a totally different design- they're lever taps. Consider making tentative enquiries into how I can go about getting B&Q staff killed, but decide that as these taps usually cost more I've actually done quite well. Then the fun really starts.
My bathroom is tiny, and the bath was clearly plumbed in before the toilet. I can get the busted cold tap changed, but there's no way I can get my wrench on the hot tap fastening unless I swap my right arm for a tentacle and grow some sort of prehensile third limb to close the wrench while it's held in place. The alternative is to take my bathroom apart to give myself more room to wedge myself in closer to the action. All to replace one tap.
Stage 5.
Say "****" again.
Stage 6.
Repeat stage 5 repeatedly.
Stage 7.
Give up. Bath now has mis-matched taps. Bath looks stupid. Don't care. Sulk in front of TV and try to think of some way to blame the wife.
This one looked so simple. The cold tap on my bath had stopped working. In itself this is no great surprise- the water round here is harder than a shark with a flick-knife and things tend to get scaled up. "No problem" I thought. "A spot of gentle persuasion will shift the scale and get things going again".
So I fish a torque wrench out of my toolbox, fit it on the tap-head. Gently, but firmly, I started rotating the tap control back and forth to grind down the scale jamming the threads.
Metal fatigue's an unpredictable bugger, isn't it? There's a loud "Crack!". Now I no longer have a tap. I have a fountain. Cue sprint to the stopcock and the first of many uses of the expression "****".
Stage 2.
Go to B&Q. This is always a mistake. I see the tap I want, but the curresponding order number reads "Basin tap", not "Bath tap". Amateurs. I take it to the till, and spend far too long attempting to explain this basic error to the acne-scarred, knuckle-dragging, slack-jawed ****wit schoolboy who was clearly trained in customer service by a sociopath. Become spectacularly acerbic with him, but it's just water off a duck's back. Receive taps.
Stage 3.
Drive home. Through a blizzard. That was fun.
Stage 4.
Make the entertaining discovery that while the taps are indeed bath-taps as I had requested, they are of a totally different design- they're lever taps. Consider making tentative enquiries into how I can go about getting B&Q staff killed, but decide that as these taps usually cost more I've actually done quite well. Then the fun really starts.
My bathroom is tiny, and the bath was clearly plumbed in before the toilet. I can get the busted cold tap changed, but there's no way I can get my wrench on the hot tap fastening unless I swap my right arm for a tentacle and grow some sort of prehensile third limb to close the wrench while it's held in place. The alternative is to take my bathroom apart to give myself more room to wedge myself in closer to the action. All to replace one tap.
Stage 5.
Say "****" again.
Stage 6.
Repeat stage 5 repeatedly.
Stage 7.
Give up. Bath now has mis-matched taps. Bath looks stupid. Don't care. Sulk in front of TV and try to think of some way to blame the wife.
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