Before I recount this story, I need to make it clear that - technically - it wasn’t us that flooded the street.
Tuesday this week started like any other day. I scraped myself out of bed, stumbled my way past the children’s bedrooms (I didn’t look, but I suspect they may not have all been up the right way), imparted a sleepy “good morning” to them, and wandered downstairs. As I passed the upstairs landing window, I saw that the road was wet and thought “it must have rained last night”.
After busying myself with tidying the kitchen, making breakfast, making packed lunches, and getting dressed, I happened to pass the playroom window.
Why were a small group of neighbours stood at the end of our drive?
Rather than head outside immediately, curiousity got the better of me and I sneaked back up to the upstairs landing - a far better vantage point. Oh look - the road has flooded in the nightwas apparently quite comical. It would appear the subcontractors chosen to repair the burst water main were Laurel and Hardy. They dug the footpath up, and then tried to fix it without turning the water off. The hole they dug succeeded in allowing the water to wash out most of the material that used to exist below the path. They did this before inviting W to move her car before they dug an even bigger hole.
“You might want to be careful when you get the car out - the path might collapse”
Thankfully it didn’t.
By all accounts by mid afternoon the entire road was underwater - at which point it occurred to them that it might be a really good idea to turn the water off.
By the time I arrived home from work, most of the water had been pumped onto the green area between the houses - turning it into a quagmire. Two days later the road is still awash with mud - the mud washed from underneath the path, which is now cracking and falling to pieces.
You can’t make this stuff up, can you.