Thanks for Nothing, Snake

My toilet has broken again. I don't know what to do. It isn't a plungeable problem this time. It's more of a dripping type of situation. There's this wee pipey bit at the back, see, which seems to have sprung a leak. Flushing slows it down for a while, but as soon as the tank fills up, there it is again: drip-drip-drip. I've set up a bowl underneath to catch the drips, but it's getting worse. This morning, I checked the bowl and found that it contained four full inches of water. Last week, there'd only be an inch or so (and sometimes Stella, as well, but that's neither here nor there.)

There's no money for the plumber. I tried to fix it myself, but I'm afraid I made things worse. I think it was the little white valves that did it. I tried to tighten them, and the pipey bit started rattling. How was I to know? They looked like the sorts of things one might tighten in the event of a leak. Toilets ought to come with instruction manuals. "Don't turn this--it'll make the piping shake like a wet puppy." "Don't flush away old newspapers, shoes, and so forth. They'll get stuck." "Cross your legs while passing gas to reduce offensive echoey noises." "If you've got leaky pipes, insert Tab A into Slot B, and order will be restored to your world." One needs to know all that sort of thing.

In other news, I am now the not-so-proud owner of a sleek and shiny Cuisinart blender. Mother sent it. That wasn't how things were meant to go, though. I mean, it was all my fault, but, as with the valve-turning disaster, how could I have known?

It was like this: whenever my mother rings, I--well, I act like I have more money than I really do, so she won't try and give me any of hers. So the other day, I was asking her advice on various kitchen accessories, as if I meant to buy them. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Mother likes it when I cook for myself instead of eating things out of boxes, so it killed two birds with one stone. I was letting her know I'm still eating properly and exaggerating my bank balance in one fell swoop. Man, you should've seen me when I hung up. Smug as all get-out, I was. Then, about ten minutes later, Mother rang back, triumphant.

"I've got you a blender," she crowed. "It's the same one I've just got for myself. They'll be bringing it on Monday or Tuesday!"

"Augh! Oh, Mother! I didn't mean you should--"

"No, I wanted to. A good blender will be useful for you. You can use it for soup, for vegetables, for all sorts of things. I'll send you some recipes. There are sauces you can make, cream sauces to put the meat on your bones."

"But...but...."

"No buts. It's on its way."

"Well, thank you very much. It's really very kind. I'll use it every day."

Then she hung up, and I hit myself in the head a few times. It's nice having a blender, and all, but I felt a right twat getting it out of my mother like that.

The wages of sin, then: one undeserved blender, and one leaky bog. I wonder if duct tape would help with that? Or maybe if I stuck the blender in the toilet tank, the sins of the toilet and the sins of the Rat would cancel one another out, resulting in one perfect dunny. (No, I don't think I'll try that.)

Domestic woes aside, these last few days have been good ones for me. Although my strength has not quite returned, there's been much less pain, even at night. I've been going to bed early and sleeping well, and drinking fruit smoothies out of the blender. (I was going to make a pie with all that fruit, but I promised Mother I'd use the blender every day, didn't I?) If there are no more relapses, I should be caught back up with work within a week or two. What a relief that would be!

Speaking of relief (or, in keeping with the toilet theme, of relieving oneself), I had another hate mail the other day, a virtual turd stuffed through my mailslot. I think it was a hate mail, anyhow. It was difficult to tell, seeing as it only contained two words, then a signature:

Hoping for some elucidation (and the chance to poke fun at the intellectually less fortunate), I sent the following reply:

Unfortunately, he did. Goodbye, snake. Thanks for the...the nothing. Yeah, thanks for nothing. Prat.