Fighting the Flood

Facebook Memories threw up this from this day in 2009.  I blogged about it then and it seems worth repeating for new readers, or those who enjoyed it the first time. 

Strangely enough we've had quite a downpour today as well.

There was a cloudburst over Benton this afternoon.

The street out the front was an inch deep in some places and the stream simply running over the top of the drain by my front gate as it was too full to let any more water in.  I looked out of the back door and discovered the doormat beginning to float as the back yard filled with water.  I put on my little red wellies and went out to investigate.

The problem was a blocked rainwater drain which we share with next door.  The rain from both our roofs descends through a shared down comer.  Most is diverted into my rainwater-butt, there is a slightly smaller butt to take the overflow and once the butts are full the rest goes down the drain.  Because of the bay window and the fence there is little or no easy access to the drain.  There is about a six-inch gap between the big butt and the windowsill.

I tried leaning over and clearing the grid with an opened out coat hanger.  The grid came away nicely.  Little bubbles of air came up from the drain.  The water level remained much the same.  Water continued to overflow from the butts.

Using buckets I emptied the contents of the smaller butt down the kitchen sink and moved it.  I then emptied as much as possible from the big butt;  filling one bucket from the tap and bailing it out from the top with another.  After about half an hour of trudging back and forth to the kitchen sink at least the doormat wasn’t floating any longer.

The rain continued to be torrential.  My hair got wet.  So did all my clothes.  So wet in fact that the water trickled down my legs into my wellies;  to the point where they squelched as I walked and it spilled out over the tops.

All the while Fester was sat watching the Tour de France.

After I’d dropped a few very heavy hints (via Thunderthighs) he ventured to the kitchen door and emptied a few buckets I handed him down the sink.  So he at least stayed dry.  We got the big butt down to about half empty so there was no overflow from that.  But as soon as we stopped it started filling again.

The rain continued to be torrential and even though there was no overflow the flood level remained the same, lapping at the doormat.  There was nothing to do but to tackle the drain.

The only way to get to it was to lie down in about 5 inches of water in the aforementioned six-inch gap and work my hand down the drain.  But by this time I was so damn wet it made no difference.

Out came:  two 2 inch diameter ornamental ceramic plant pots;  a triangular piece of concrete half an inch thick with 3 inch sides;  various bits of stone and slate about the size of 50p pieces;  other bits of grit.  Once I got the bit of concrete out there was a sudden gurgling and the waters swirled down the hole.  It went so fast that had I not been wedged in the six-inch gap I might have been washed away.  I got up, replaced the grid and squelched my way back into the house.

Fester had the sense to run me a bath.  I stripped off in the kitchen, wrung out my clothes and emptied my wellies down the sink, went upstairs and sank into it relatively gratefully.

#THANK YOU NHS

Being a 50s baby I know little of life before the National Health Service except what my mother told me.  She lost her own mother to breast cancer a decade before I was born, so I never met Granma Ward.  I am now many years older than she was when she died.

According to Mum, Granma Ward was a very private person and didn’t even tell her daughters about the lump until it had started causing her real problems.  It never occurred to her to visit a doctor.  The family had been very poor during the Depression and the habit of not spending money had stuck.  It also took some persuading to get her to show such an intimate part of her body to a stranger, even a medically qualified one.

When a Consultant finally deigned to see her his diagnosis and reaction was “Immediate surgery.  Thirty shillings consultancy fee please.”

The cancer was far too far gone, and presumably spread, for surgery to make any difference.

Mum never forgot, or forgave, the attitude of the Consultant.

She also made sure we were taken to the doctor whenever anything went amiss, whether we wanted to or not, and that we followed all instructions and took medication as prescribed.

So I would like to thank the NHS for:-

Caring for me and mine through childhood illnesses.

Removing my tonsils and adenoids.

Pinning back my batwing ears:  when I was six our GP told my mother “A girl can’t go through life with ears like that!”

Giving my mother “a complete repair down there” when I was 12.

Removing my father’s gall stones, years of painkillers for his arthritis and two hip replacements.  When he was 64 Dad had a major heart attack: the care he was given gave him thirty more years of life, mostly active and independent.

The ileostomy given to my first husband, Phil, when a tumour was found in his bowel; which gave us six good months before the cancer came back in his liver.

The care given to Phil, and me, during his last months, days and moments.

Removing my wisdom teeth, gall bladder, the birth of my two boys and various reassuring investigations.

The pills given to my current husband Fester for his gout and hypertension and the breathing machine which decreases his snoring and gives us both a better night’s sleep.

The peace of mind of knowing that, unlike my grandparents and so many people in other parts of the world, if my boys, Fester or I become ill then we can go to the doctor without the fear of financial ruin.

During the past decade half a dozen of my friends have been diagnosed with cancer of the breast, womb or prostrate.  They have all received treatment and they are all still here.  Some have finished treatment and are just getting regular check-ups.  One is having an operation in a few days thanks to a lump discovered by a routine mammogram.  One has been receiving radiotherapy and chemotherapy for most of that time and has reached the stage where the cancer is simply being held at bay. 

None of them has had to worry about the cost. 

None of them has been treated with the cavalier disrespect inflicted on my Grandmother.

This is why I love, support and am immensely grateful for the National Health Service.