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Fixing a Leaky Faucet

London is a known major urban metropolis, so you shouldn’t have to do anything yourself such as fixing a car, tweaking household appliances or repairing faulty plumbing and risking failure. You call on the professionals for that. I am not talking about myself, mind you, but my husband. In this day and age of absolute gender equality, you expect women to do anything; but in some areas we are still quite traditional and don’t venture forth. This includes addressing a dripping kitchen faucet.

I love my telly time and really don’t want to be interrupted when certain shows are on. Everyone knows this. I won’t look at email, post on social media, or answer the phone. Having to constantly check on the faucet is not high on my list either when I am settled in for an evening of guilty pleasure—popcorn by my side. I don’t have kids to intrude on my space. I expect my husband, Gus, to deal with it and call a good service. He laid down the law, however, at more and more household expenses and said, surprisingly, “no.” After some debate and heated argument, I had to acquiesce. I can’t argue with logic.

Now there was the issue of who would do the dirty work. I waited a week and Gus was just not looking into it at all. I know he doesn’t have much talent in the household sector and frankly I was relieved. I really did not expect good work and maybe the faucet would get worse and start gushing. There was a dreaded thought. I had to take matters into my own hands. I went online and looked up dripping faucets—how to fix. I got a list of tools (not many) and made a bee line to the hardware store where I picked up a simple all-purpose wrench and a new fancy faucet.

Back at home, I stood staring at the old faucet and then the fancy new faucet. I was intimidated by the feel of the large, heavy device in my hand. I slowly lifted it up and started to grasp the neck of the faucet just below the open end. It was a breeze. It came off in a flash with no injuries to me or scars on the shiny metal. I replaced the faucet with a new one as instructed and restored the cap. Now the true test: I turned on the faucet and grimaced. But it came out in a nice, even flow. When off, there was no leak, not a drop.

I was pretty proud of my handy work. This was a mind opener. When Gus came home he didn’t notice. “Gus,” I whispered. “Gus.” Finally I caught his attention and took his hand. I led him to the kitchen sink and stood still. He got the message. Kissing me on the check he said, “I’m proud of you.” I beamed. The problem was that now I was expected to do all the work around the house due to my less than skilled mate.

Posted in Home Life