Yorkshire: Water Blocked Drain

Twenty-four hours. In a house with one toilet, one sink, and a bath that now refused to empty. The next day dawned bright and cruel. The drain outside on the pavement, the one Arthur had always assumed was his private responsibility, was now a small, bubbling geyser. A neighbourâ€™s child rode her bike through the puddle and screamed as brown water splashed her ankles.

It wasnâ€™t the usual whiff of drain. It was the primordial ooze of a hundred thousand Sunday roasts, wet wipes, and that cheap washing-up liquid his wife Margaret had bought from the pound shop before she passed. It rose from the plughole like a ghost. Arthur sighed, pulled on his wellies, and grabbed the plunger. yorkshire water blocked drain

Kev and Ash returned with a jet vac truckâ€”a massive lorry with a high-pressure hose and a giant vacuum tank. They fed the hose into the drain. The machine roared. For ten minutes, nothing happened. Then, with a sound like a clogged artery bursting, a chunk of grey, fibrous, rock-hard fat shot out of the pipe and splattered against the curb. Twenty-four hours

â€œA what?â€