Ark. Ark. Aaaaaaark.

I don’t often do this but this blog is going to be something of a journal entry.

Yesterday afternoon we left our home and drove for a few hours to my parents’ place to celebrate Christmas with my family (postponed a week due to COVID19 related complications). While away, we had arranged for my father in law to feed our cat and chickens. The puppy, of course, came with us.

This morning around 10:30, my father in law rang. I knew as soon as I heard he was on the phone that something bad must’ve happened. He has often fed our animals for us and he never calls. Sure enough he said “I have some bad news”.

Thankfully, it was not about my mother in law or the nearly 14 year old cat or the six chickens. The bad news was that, overnight, our toilet cistern had decided to (effectively) blow a fuse. For any number of hours a pretty little geyser spouted quietly in our house and by the time my father in law arrived to feed the animals this morning, the water was an inch deep throughout most of the house. To add insult to injury, a spare roll of toilet paper in wait to be put on the roller was eroded gradually by the water and the gooey fleece of it ebbed and swam all over the house. Imagine the cat tip-toeing through all that!

Apparently there is video footage of water pouring out of our front door and down the path. And another of water coming through one of the seep holes in the outside wall.

Of course, my husband left here immediately after the phone call to deal with the mess. I am still at my parents’ place with the kids and the puppy, doing admin type assistance and a lot of wondering. The initial interactions with the insurance company have not been very reassuring. How much of the flooring will we have to replace? How much damage has been done to the plaster board walls? And how much water is sitting inside the walls, potentially rotting the frames? And what of all our furniture?

It feels like instead of me booting 2020 out the back door as I looked forward to doing, 2020 managed to fit in a final kick up the arse.

The photo up top of the line of silhouetted crows on a dead tree feels like an apt and symbolic farewell to this pig-headed fart-face of a year.

2 thoughts on “Ark. Ark. Aaaaaaark.

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