Triffids Beard 2 - The Bearded Triffid

cistern had to cover the hole in the wall left by the old one. Therefore the new pipe would also have to be
distorted to fit. And since the new cistern was going on to the wall instead of being inset into it, the new
pipe would have to be on the outside. This kinky pipe would not be hidden from the gaze of the world.
Though given that I am a gentleman, and therefore lift the seat, (which is, of course, the definition of a
gentleman) it would occasionally be camouflaged.
The plumber heated the pipe over an element of the stove, constantly turning it and gently pulling and
twisting to put the proper zigs and zags into it. It distorted very smoothly and took on its new shape
without any of the bubbling exhibited by the old one. I suspect that whoever fitted the original toilet only
discovered that the cistern and the toilet bowl did not line up after they had been fixed in place, and the
pipe had to be distorted in situ, hence the blow torch and the bubbly surface. What a bodgy job.
Sap Rising by A. A. Gill is a very dirty book; one of the most obscenely funny it has ever been my
pleasure to read. The word "filth" is nowhere near filthy enough to do it justice, the word "rude" is not
rude enough and the word "obscene" is woefully inadequate. This is one mother of a dirty book. And it is
belly-laugh-out-loud hilarious as well. For once the blurb sums it up perfectly:
...just a farcical love story set in a garden, about nothing of any consequence, performed by comic
grotesques with a lot of swearing and unnatural sex.
The faint of virtue will probably want to ban it and the weak-stomached will have a permanently risen
gorge. Those who have read it will never again look at a packet of seeds with an innocent eye and they
will give a wide berth to german shepherd dogs and jars of brylcreem.
The remaining steps to get the toilet working seemed fairly straightforward. Off with the old, on with the
new (though the old cistern required attacking with a saw before it surrendered); attach the wibbly
wobbly pipe, tighten the various knobs. "Can you turn the water on now, please?"
Hell:
Up the street, round the corner, down the road, twist the valve, up the street, round the corner, down
the street, back into the house.
"It leaks," said the plumber. "Can you turn it off again?"
Up the street, round the corner, down the road, twist the valve, up the street, round the corner, down
the street, back into the house.
Twist, turn, seal the joints. "Can you turn the water on again?"
Goto Hell.
Somehow the infinite loop I entered in the last paragraph eventually terminated (I may have discovered a
new Cantorian transfinite number somewhat in excess of Aleph-Null in the process). "I hate water," said
the plumber with feeling.
And now, there it is in all its glory; my toilet with the S-shaped pipe and two cute little buttons on the top
of the cistern, one for a half-flush, one for a full; a choice I've never had to make before. The complexity
of it all threatens to overwhelm me at times, but so far I've managed. I'm relieved.
I'm also relieved that it's over. It's OK for my cats to scratch a hole beneath a tree and squat, but I'm not
sure that I could manage it with dignity (though for a time I thought that I might have to). Let's hear it
for Thomas Crapper.
Robert Silverberg The Alien Years Voyager
Tom Holt The Walled Orchard Warner
Esther Friesner (ed) Chicks in Chainmail Baen
Lindsey Davis The Course of Honour Arrow