“Abingdon Clogged Toilet Services, this is Pete. Is it an emergency?”
Pete peered into the now-empty bowl. “Gone to the great bath in the sky. Or the Abingdon sewage treatment plant off Marcham Road. One of the two.”
“Classic Abingdon hard water,” Pete said, kneeling down. “Mineral buildup narrows the pipes. One duck, one too many wipes, and boom—you’ve got a dam.” clogged toilet services abingdon
The van rumbled to life. Another crisis averted. Another satisfied flush.
The toilet was clear.
Pete sighed, pulled on his waterproof overalls, and kissed his sleeping wife on the forehead. Fifteen minutes later, his van—emblazoned with the slogan “We’re #1 in the #2 Business”—rolled down Stert Street. He parked outside a tidy Georgian townhouse where a single light burned in the downstairs loo.
The call came in at 11:47 PM on a Tuesday. Abingdon was asleep, save for the faint hum of the highway and the occasional barking of a fox near the Thames. “Abingdon Clogged Toilet Services, this is Pete
Sarah burst into tears of relief. “Is the duck…?”