Today I took a drive back down to our holiday home. It is on on the coast, in a funky little town that is very reminiscent of Brighton and even some parts of London. There seems to be a big cafe culture in the neighbourhood as well as a few gastro-pubs, an art gallery and a shopping district. Check and double check.
My main goal for the trip was to sort out the fact that I couldn’t seem to turn on the water in the flat.
After one frustrating hour in the flat with my iPhone, talking to friends and relatives, opening doors and cupboards, pacing from one end of the flat to the other with my yellow screwdriver, I still had no water. I decided to go out for lunch and gather my wits about me. Pickles agreed. She was extremely uncomfortable in this new place with NO sofas to sit on and no dog treats. (And no water.)
Just around the corner was a pub with reclaimed furniture. They welcomed Pickles with a big bowl of water. I was served a delicious chicken salad and was able to make a phone call to the water authority who promised to come to the flat within 40 minutes.
Then a bald man in a flowered swing dress and tennis shoes appeared at the bar and ordered a beer. He was served and treated with absolute ordinariness.
The water authority came to my flat as promised and the water valve was located — in the ceiling of the bathroom where no one but I thought to look.
Water is on. Electricity is on. I think I’m going to like our new place. I have a feeling it might suit me down to the ground.