The Plumber Cometh

For over a year,
my taps have screamed like banshees,
my bath has filled slower than a Microsoft update,
and my main toilet has stood silent -
a porcelain monument to disappointment.

I have paid rent dutifully,
an extortionate amount each month -
the kind of sum that could buy
a luxury car every single year,
or rent an actual castle in other areas,
moat included.

But now - rejoice! -
a plumber is coming!
A. PLUMBER!
Not merely a tradesperson,
but an actual demi-god with spanners,
my celebrity in overalls,
my miracle-worker Mario.

I shall greet him
like the pilgrims at Lourdes,
offer caffeine, cake,
and possibly my first-born child.
If only he will banish
those banshee screams
from my pipes,
summon water from the void,
and grant me the mythical luxury
of a shower that lasts longer
than a raindrop.

When he leaves,
I shall stand beneath hot water
like Eva Longoria in that L’Oreal advert,
I shall do laundry,
and make dishes sparkle
like a domestic queen.
Because “I am” fucking “worth it”.