WOMEN CAN’T UNDERSTAND GUTTERS

One is not born, but rather becomes, a woman. When a man incorrectly explains a drainage issue to you.

This week a man came round to fix the gutter.

There are two problems with the gutter. Firstly, the downpipe is blocked with moss and leaves. This means that when our neighbours shower, the water backs up and runs directly onto our kitchen window. I don’t want to be a climate doomer but when it’s raining Original Source mint shower gel, I struggle to have any hope for the future.

Secondly, the third storey gutter has a leak. On rainy nights, a large drip falls onto the concrete outside my bedroom window every five seconds, making the sound of a sarcastic slow clap.

Regular readers will recognise this issue as The Drip. By keeping me awake several nights a week, The Drip has served a useful purpose in my life as The Reason I Am Sad. Because of this I am apprehensive about having it fixed. Nobody wants to find out they are just sad for no reason. It’s better that it’s because of a drainage issue.

However, I also know the sleep deprivation is probably giving me cancer and dementia and dissolving my bones and reducing my ability to recall all the Adam Curtis films any given piece of archive has appeared in, so reluctantly I organise to have the gutter fixed.

I’ve rented for nearly 10 years. I am, therefore, an expert at relaying complex engineering information to landlords and teenage estate agents and the hundred other intermediaries you need to contact to get something minor fixed. Having organised the replacement of a toilet seat in a rented flat, I am now confident I could organise the assassination of a world leader using only WhatsApp, email, and the Foxtons tenant portal.

I’ve already sent two photos to the landlord with the problem area circled in each one. To her credit, the landlord quickly organises for someone to “come and clean the gutter.” I ask if this means they can fix the leak too. She says “this man is a Gutter Expert” and “maybe”. The annotated photos are forwarded onto the Gutter Expert, who does not look at them.

When he arrives, I explain the gutter issues from the upstairs neighbour’s balcony, gesturing at the problems with what are, in fairness, my pathetically small women’s fingers. At which point, my (male) neighbour interrupts to tell the Gutter Expert that I am wrong about The Drip.
“There’s no leak. The problem is just that the downpipe is blocked. It makes the water run over her window,” he says.
“A spearmint tsunami!” I agree, trying to keep the peace.
“What?” He says.
“Nothing.” I choke. I don’t want him thinking I smell their bath water. “That’s not the only issue. Didn’t you see the pictures?”
Everyone agrees that they haven’t seen the pictures.

All this turns out to be moot because I then discover that, the day before, the British Gas Man has (I hope accidentally) nicked the key that I left in the back door for him. The downstairs door is locked, so the Gutter Expert can’t get his ladder through the flat. He promises to rearrange and leaves us to another sleepless night of concrete applause. I feel very smug, though. Because I’ve got the Gutter Expert to promise that, on his return, he will “have a quick look” at the main issue I booked him to fix.

After a month of rearranging, a second, different Gutter Expert arrives.
“Please tell me you have seen the pictures”, I say.
“What pictures?” says the New Gutter Expert.
I take him outside and gesture weakly at the two problems with my deficiently small hands. He says that The Drip is likely caused by a broken seal in the “union bracket” which, he explains at length, is a bracket which brings two parts of a pipe together in a kind of union.
“I’m pretty sure the seal is the problem,” I agree. “But obviously I can’t see from here, and this has been going on so long I want to make sure we fix it. When you’re up there please can you also check that the pipe isn’t just cracked?”
For the second time, he explains to me what a “union bracket” is. I tell him I understand that a rubber seal is used between sections of pipe, but ask if he can double check that the seal is actually the issue before fixing it.
He ignores me. “I will replace the seal. The seal is a bit of rubber which stops the water leaking out. It’s in the union bracket.”

I do a big Victor Meldrew sigh and stomp inside. Two minutes later I hear the (male) neighbour explaining to the Gutter Expert that I am wrong, and there is no leak. The Gutter Expert defends me. Because it means he can charge us for replacing the rubber seal. Which is a bit of rubber inside the union bracket.

When he’s done, the Gutter Expert walks an enormous amount of mud through the house. It’s so thick and wet that my boyfriend Jon and I decide we need to let it dry and then hoover it up. For the rest of the day we have to walk along the skirting boards of the corridor to avoid the mud, like big spiders doing the splits. I joke that the Gutter Expert has cleaned out the gutter directly into our flat. Jon doesn’t think this is funny.

When we go to bed it begins to rain. I initially tense up, waiting for The Drip. But Gutter Expert 2 was right: it was the union bracket! Everything is forgiven. The rain ambience is as peaceful as an artificial Spotify rain sounds playlist, and it doesn’t smell of mint at all. The blockage and The Drip are gone.

But then I notice another noise. Coming from the windowsill by our bed. It sounds like someone is banging on the glass. I leap out of bed, pull up the blind, throw open the window and swear at the sky while filthy water pours into my eyeball, probably giving me dysentery or eyeworms.

“What are you doing?” mutters Jon, half asleep.
“It’s The Drip, Jon!” but we both know it’s not. It’s different. It’s louder. I crane my neck towards the gutter. A torrent of New Drips is falling from a different union bracket right above our window. The Gutter Expert has expertly cleaned the gutter, and in the process has unclogged another rubber seal, which was also broken. I swear again. Jon puts in his ear plugs.

“Well that’s just great,” I say. “At least we’ll know why we feel bad”.

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Hey, attractive and well-connected reader, I’d love to write more prose. Give me or my agent Kate Haldane at PBJ a shout if you’re looking for pitches.

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