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Kev smiled. “That’s just a kid who wanted to see where the water went.”

A van with a faded yellow logo and the smell of coffee and grease arrived within the hour. The man who stepped out was named Kev. He had the weathered face of a Birkenhead docker and the calm, unshakeable patience of a plumber who had seen God only knew what congealed in the pipes of Wallasey. unblocking drains wirral

“It’s not just you, love. It’s the whole row. Victorian pipes. They were built for horse manure and rainwater, not for fairy liquid and flash frying.” Kev smiled

“It’s the fat,” Kev said, not as an accusation, but as a eulogy. “People think it goes away. It doesn’t. It hardens. Turns into a concrete artery clog in the soil pipe.” He knelt, heaved the cover off with a grunt, and peered into the abyss. The smell that rose was ancient – a mix of detergent, decay, and the ghost of a thousand Sunday roasts. He had the weathered face of a Birkenhead

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