For the first time in my life I danced, literally, for joy. I have danced before, you understand, but whether it has been an expression of joy or not is a moot point. Unfortunately for anyone reading this, it was a case of technishererfolgangbemangelsfrust, for it involves replacing the washer on a tap.
A washer so old that neither of my two local plumbing suppliers had seen one before. I do not say this lightly. The Venerable Sikh, who is to DIY what Bob Dylan is to motorcycle impersonation, furrowed his brow so hard the lines could be seen from space. His younger rival asked: “How old is the tap? Is it Victorian, or somefing?”
Faced with the prospect of replacing my bathroom taps (shortly before my impending move to a new flat) and weeks without water (unless I wanted to recreate Old Faithful every time I washed my hands) I went into a fug. I bought the largest rubber washer the Venerable Sikh had and went home convinced that balancing it on the valve seat would be as half-arsed as Cunégonde’s one-buttocked maid in Candide.
“Ha ha,” I roared when it worked. I danced an unattractive jig and marvelled that this was the finest case of technishererfolgangbemangelsfrust I had ever encountered.
