Unblocking Drains Wirral -

“That’s your blockage,” Kev said, dropping the soldier into a bucket. “The ring’s a bonus.”

Kev didn’t use a fancy electric eel first. He used his eyes. He lay on his belly in the wet moss, a torch clamped between his teeth, and traced the line of the clay pipe with his fingers. “Collapsed joint,” he announced finally. “About four foot down. The roots have got in. Sycamore. Nasty buggers.”

Edith led him to the back garden. The manhole cover was weeping. A slick, grey film of fat and despair had bubbled up around the edges, mixing with fallen sycamore leaves. unblocking drains wirral

“You know,” Kev said, pausing at the gate. “Unblocking drains on the Wirral... it’s not a job. It’s a geography lesson. Every pipe tells you who lived here. The grease from the chip shops. The hair from the girls getting ready for the Pyramids Centre. The lost rings.”

Edith felt a blush of shame. “I do scrape the plates.” “That’s your blockage,” Kev said, dropping the soldier

“Number 14, Princes Road,” she murmured, dialling the number on a damp card she’d kept under the fridge magnet for ten years. “Drain Unblocking Wirral – 24/7.”

“Morning, love,” he said, pulling on a pair of industrial gloves that looked like they’d survived a war. “What’s the story?” He lay on his belly in the wet

He drove away in his yellow van. The drains ran clear. And for the first time in a week, Edith ran a bath without fear.