The Dear Resident letter said disruption would be kept to a minimum. Limited alternative parking would be available in neighbouring streets. Nobody objected of course.
The slamming of jackhammers at 6 a.m. was horrendous, but hoardings obscured the excavators and promised delicious dessert on tap coming soon. They pictured a rosy-cheeked family round a gingham-clothed table, spoons raised to gleaming smiles.
Then came a brochure with the annual charges. I put ours straight in the recycling. I didn’t even like rice pudding.
Our friends Pete and Dana got connected last year. They reckon an RP4U pipe sticks an average five grand on property values. Al began to spend Friday nights at their place watching movies and trying out different toppings. At first, he’d fill a Kliplok and bring it back for Dom, but RP4U soon put a stop to that; they ran a campaign on bus shelters and TV – Bacteria spread fast! Some things are not for sharing.
The pipes were buried, the tarmac patched, and the street grew quiet again. Dom picked at cheesecake and key lime pie, rejected every variety of ice cream. One day I gave in and went to the Co-op for a tin of rice pudding, but there was none among the peaches and instant whip. No call for it now, the girl on the till said, barely suppressing a smirk as she rang up the milk and paper and Chablis.
That night Dom went to his friend Erin's for tea. The next evening he was out again. On Saturday a note on the fridge said he’d be back Sunday. He wouldn’t want dinner.
Why don't you bring your friends here? I said next time I saw him.
And give them what? Cheesy freaking nachos?
I thought the bill was a mistake. Obviously it had to be. But when I finally got through to Rashid – after eighteen minutes of Vivaldi interspersed with reminders that calls may be recorded for training purposes and abusive language to RP4U operatives will not be tolerated – he explained that because the pipe cut across the corner of our drive, my property was technically being supplied. He seemed offended when I said we didn’t want to be connected.
We hardly saw the neighbours anymore. Occasionally there’d be a huddle at the bus shelter discussing whether jam or honey stirred in most smoothly. The conversation would stop abruptly when I appeared.
The night Al found me on my hands and knees clawing the dirt at the end of the driveway he said Enough is enough, Mary. The next day he had the tap installed.
That was three months ago, but not much has changed.
Al’s at Pete and Dana’s, and goodness only knows where Dom is.
I twist the chrome arm of the tap. The familiar rumble is comforting like the weight of the thick, warm liquid that slides into my waiting bowl. Clutching a jar of syrup, I head for the lounge to see what’s on TV.
No comments:
Post a Comment