We’ve got a rare and beautiful thing in the village, and that is a plumber who is also a celtic harpist. By day he wears a boiler suit and is revered for his ability to wield a plunger, and stop a leak at 30 paces. Then after work he trundles off in his white van, changed into plus fours and a soulful expression and emerges as a fully-fledged harpist, available for weddings and parties. And he is very, very good, with over a hundred celtic tunes at his fingertips. His harp is made from wood he retrieved from various skips, and sounds quite heavenly. I think he’d have been well at home in medieval times, as I told him last time he was here to change a tap. He was delighted, and grew a beard to celebrate. In his soul he is a wandering minstrel and it’s just our good fortune, as a community, that he’s also an excellent plumber and a very nice man.
This is a short one, but heartfelt. Today I was writing for a deadline, and well in the zone, when I heard a voice in my ear: ”well, where do you want the waste pipe, then?” It was Beefy the plumber, and it really really matters where the waste pipe goes. So I went and thought about waste pipes. Then I returned to the computer, and got back into the zone and then there was Beefy again: ”there should be a sort of tube thing that came with the bath – any idea where it is?” No idea, so I went and hunted through cardboard boxes and eventually found it. Back to the computer and just tuning in when: “usually people paint behind the radiator before I fit it!” which was an excellent point. So I gave up and painted behind the radiator. And when I had finished it was time for Beefy, who is an excellent plumber but high maintenance, to have another cup of tea. So here I am, just about to start writing again, and it’s only possible because Beefy has gone home.