One more day

Well, well dear diary. That’s that then. 55 years of being a plumber and that’s me last day done. Time to start me a new journey.

I must say I feel a little strange about the whole thing. But Doris is right, it’s time I ‘ung up me spanners and overalls, spent a bit more time with ‘er. She’s a list as long as me arm of jobs I’ll be doing once I retire. In the garden and what not. Apparently we’ll be going for some nice long walks as well. I don’t mind Dear Diary, as long as there’s a cuppa and a piece of cake at the end of it!

And what a day I’ve ‘ad, Dear Diary, what a day I’ve ‘ad.

First call was to ol’ Mrs Wyburn. Lovely lady, if not a little prim. Always immaculately dressed, in ‘er tweed and polished shoes. Well I’ve been looking after ‘er plumbing for over 30 years. Mind you it doesn’t seem like 5 minutes ago she was introducing me to ‘er pet tortoise for the first time. That very first time she called. If me ol’ memory serves me ok it was a leaking pipe in ‘er airing cupboard. Well blow me down if I didn’t get down on me hands and knees to ‘ave a look, which, Dear Diary I used to do a lot faster than I can now, I’ll tell you. I came face to face with a tortoise. Well I go to the bottom of me tool box! Jumped up so fast I bumped me ‘ed on the shelf…gave me self a right big lump.

“Boris!” She cried as I emerged rubbing me ‘ed. Boris wasn’t the word I was thinking of Dear Diary but It was close…I remained professional.

“Oh dear Boris my darling.” She cried. “Are you ok?” she reached in and picked him up, his face slowly emerging from under his shell seemingly oblivious to the excitement. “He’s just coming round from his big sleep” she said. “It’s nice and warm in the airing cupboard, helps him get going.”

“Oh.” I said, followed by the same question everyone asks when they see a tortoise…. “And how old is he?”

“He’s 58.” She said beaming with pride. “He’s the most handsome one I’ve ever had.”

“Oh really.” I said, forcing a smile. I’ll be honest Dear Diary, I don’t think I’d ever, seen anything, as ugly as Boris the 58 year old tortoise. (And I ran over a hedgehog once in me van! Looked like a jam doughnut had been hit by an ‘ammer!) One of his eyes just refused to open and his tongue stuck out of one side of his mouth. If Mrs Wyburn hadn’t assured me otherwise, I would have thought he was dead.

Then, Dear Diary, Mrs Wyburn said the magic words.

“Would you like a cup of tea and a biscuit?”

“Well that would be lovely thank you.” I said, as you know, Dear Diary, I never say no to a cup of tea.

I was left to ponder the water stained ceiling, so back on me knees I got and peered into the darkness. Now Dear Diary I’ve ‘ad me ‘ed in many an airing cupboard over the years and I’ve seen me fair share of odd things, I can tell you. But when I put me ‘ed back into Mrs Wyburn’s airing cupboard that day, the smell nearly knocked me out. Are you sure he’s not dead? I mumbled to me self.

Problem solved I thought. I made me way back down stairs, I followed the sound of the teaspoon tinkling in the china cup.

“Any luck?” Said Mrs Wyburn “is it a big problem?”

“No, no.” I said. Dear Diary I couldn’t stop me self-smiling. “I think it might be a very small problem indeed. What does Boris ‘ere do about spending a penny?” I asked.

Mrs Wyburn couldn’t disguise ‘er confusion as she mulled my question over for a second.

“Oh.. Yes….I see…he does drink rather a lot when he’s waking up. And yes he just spends his penny wherever he is sitting. Oh, and yes, now you mention it it can be quite a puddle at times.”

“Problem solved.” I said.

You know what Dear Diary, we were getting on so well. She saw the funny side of it and we ‘ad a bit of a chuckle. Then Dear Diary I’m afraid ol’ Mrs Wyburn committed the worst sin possible….Yes Dear Diary you’ve guessed it.

“Biscuit?” she said, offering a china plate in my direction. And there they were, half a dozen Rich Tea fanned out in front of me. Well Dear Diary, I’ve expressed my opinion to you on many occasions about Rich tea…THEY ARE NOT BISCUITS! I would rather dunk the packet in me tea!

Anyway, I declined, politely.

You know what Dear Diary, come to think of it, she never offered me a biscuit again in 30 years.

I scored ‘er a 4 out of 10 because of ‘er biscuit choice. She did make a lovely cuppa and ‘er china was proper.

Where too next… Ah yes.

Second call was Reverend Godswin at the old vicarage. A crackin’ fella. He’s been looking after his flock for 25 years, he inherited me with the house when he moved in. Lovely old building it is as well. I’ve always thought it was funny to have a man of the cloth with the word God in his actual name.

Anyway.

As I said Dear Diary he’s a crackin’ fella, always happy to stop and talk, never too busy to sit and listen. And Dear Diary, he makes an outstanding Victoria sponge. Probably (Don’t tell the wife) the best Victoria sponge I’ve ever ‘ad. As I recall, over the years he’s only ever dropped to a 9 out of 10 on one occasion. It wasn’t really his fault, but his fridge packed up and the milk went off. But standards are standards, Dear Diary so he lost a point that day. But he’s always baking something when I arrive and the house always smells heavenly (excuse the pun!).

As always he didn’t disappoint, as he knew I was coming, and had enough time to knock up one of his master pieces.

“Coffee and walnut today”, he said showing me in. we’ve got to the point where he just leads me straight to the kitchen and sits me down with a cuppa before I even open me tool box. Crackin’ fella.

It’s a 10 out of 10 for today’s visit Dear Diary….I’ll certainly miss The Reverends baking, that’s for sure.

Now then Dear Diary who was next…… Ah yes.

Now this one breaks me art, Dear Diary, this one breaks me ‘art.

Dear ol’ Lydia, a lovely, lovely lady. They moved up here from the middle of London about 15 years ago. Said it was time to get out. They said it just wasn’t the same as it used to be. They were Londoners born and bred. I guess you might have called them Cockneys. We hit it off straight away. ‘er and ‘er husband Walter. Lovely fella. If not a little ‘ard to understand at first. I think our first conversation went something like this.

“Alright me ole china? Did the trouble explain on the dog and bone? It’s the bath, see, won’t drain away. Think the trouble and strife must have lost most of her barnet down it. The plug hole that is. She’ll be needing a syrup before long. Causing me loadsa Barney rubble. The cows and kisses is doing nothing but Darby and Joan, know what I mean?  You come with me up the apples and pears, I’ll show you where the problem is and I’ll go and make a pot of Rosey.”

Dear Diary, I didn’t have a clue, not a clue. But Walter led me to the bathroom where it took me ten minutes to unblock the drain. It was full of hair. I never did find out why he didn’t just tell me that was the problem. Anyway it turned out a pot of Rosey was a cup of tea! So they sat me down with me cup of Rosey lee and a godforsaken sarnie! (That’s a bacon sandwich Dear Diary!). If that wasn’t good enough, when it came to paying me Bill, he insisted on giving me an extra Lady Godiva. That’s a five pound note to you and me.

They scored an easy 10 out of 10 that day, Dear Diary, they don’t get much better than that, I can tell you.

Sadly on my visits to Lydia and Walter’s house in the coming years, it was clear something wasn’t right with Walter. Dear ol’ Walter didn’t seem his ol’ self, on one occasion, he took half an hour trying to make me a cup of Rosey lee. It was like he was lost in his own kitchen. Very sad. He just could not work out how to do it. Lydia took me to one side.

“He’s been going down hill really quickly”, she told me. “Last week I found him out in the back garden watering his spuds, and he only had his pyjama top on.  Oh he’d be so ashamed, he’s such a proud man.”

Lydia told me, on me last visit, Walter had been diagnosed with something called rapid onset vascular dementia. So sad, Dear Diary, so sad. He’d gone into a home, as Lydia couldn’t manage to look after him anymore. We sat at ‘er kitchen table, and she poured ‘er art out to me. I’m not ashamed, and I don’t mind telling you Dear Diary, we got through a whole box of tissues between us. She said it was like he had died. But worse, as she still had to go and visit him. Make sure he had clean pyjamas on. “Such a proud man.” She said.

 I miss ol’ Walter and his funny way of talking. Half the time Dear Diary, I hadn’t got a clue what he was talking about. But we had a laugh. And more importantly, he always made me lots of tea.

You see Dear Diary, I’ve come to realise, all these years, all these people. They aren’t just customers….they’ve become friends. Some of ‘em good friends at that. Maybe it’s just been a long day, but I’ll tell you something Dear Diary…..I’ll miss ’em. I’ll miss ‘em all.

Oh Hang on Dear Diary me phone’s ringing………………………

Well Dear Diary, that was Reverend Godswen just rang. He said he’s still got a bit of a problem with a dripping tap. He said he’s just finished baking some scones and a Victoria sponge…a Victoria sponge Dear Diary!

I think Doris and the garden can wait one more day………