“My grandson,” she said, before Dave could ask. “He visits on Sundays. He likes to flush things. Last week it was a spoon. I thought I’d caught him in time.” She looked at Dave’s bucket. “Oh dear. Not the dinosaur?”
Scrape. Thunk. Pause.
He went in. The smell hit first—that particular Epsom cocktail of old grease, chalky limescale from the local hard water, and the unmistakable low note of raw sewage. The kitchen crew had retreated to the back alley, looking pale. drain unblocking epsom
The email came in at 7:14 AM on a Tuesday. “Urgent: Ground floor flooded. Smell is unbearable. Can you be here by 8?” “My grandson,” she said, before Dave could ask
Dave wiped his hands. “Upstream, then. There’s a flat above you?” ” she said