Leaking Tradecraft

 

Leaking Tradecraft

 

Why, it’s been six months,

maybe more,

the postman knocked the door

or would’ve done –

but those days are gone,

just emails marked spam -

he was once wont to knock twice,

you know?

You scowl at the bill,

call them in

to have a meter fitted -

it’s original sin

to be wasteful

in their green utopia, for sure.

So, they came,

poked about with your pipes a bit

gave it the full five minutes,

cocked an ear,

with utmost solemnity declared

shock, horror –

there’s leaks round here.

17 bloody litres a day,

making their way

into your scorched Earth -

well, something’s having a party,

you’d maybe think,

water, water everywhere,

let’s have a bit to drink.

But where?

Where do you think it be?

Matey takes his divining rod,

licks a gritty finger,

points with certainty

at your kitchen floor,

under ceramic tiles,

beneath them warped boards,

with confidence declares

that he’s heard a noise.

And that’s it.

Months pass, until at last

here’s your leaden plumber

of weighty matters,

all creosote coveralls

and putty splatters,

a-gurning and a-frowning,

blowtorch to hand

and in his other

a vicious receipt he plans

to lay upon you

come that happy day,

but – scowls and says –

Oh dear, no leak here,

they’re plumb wrong –

think it’s up your top path,

they're having a laugh

them other lads -

we’ll be back next month,

thereabouts, it's lunch.

No one round here’s grinning

at all those drawstrings

snipped by ruthless cutpurses

and you’d fucking swear

but it does no good to curse –

it’s the UK, fear the worse.