“Dave! It’s coming up through the floor! Smells like a hundred years of bad decisions!”
Dave climbed into the van, the engine coughing to life. He glanced in the rearview mirror at the city—the old terraced houses, the new flats, the muddy River Trent finally flowing within its banks again. emergency drainage stoke on trent
Dave didn’t smile. He just watched the water recede from the alley, leaving a trail of silt and a single, perfectly intact Victorian marble. He picked it up, wiped it on his trousers, and handed it to Mrs. Kapoor’s young son. “Lost property,” he said. “Dave
He called in the cavalry: a mobile pump unit and his son, young Davey, who was still learning the sacred art of unblocking the Potteries. the new flats