The plumber
No sex and the city

September 7, 2006
iranian.com

Archibald Norris, my next-door neighbour, had told me to expect a surprise. Knowing Archie, I thought this meant the Polish plumber he’d recommended might invite me to a book festival.

At seven thirty am on Tuesday, however, a woman, one Anna Karasiewicz, turned up at my doorstep. There I was, with morning breath and stuff in my eyes... observing a goddess.

“Shall I come in?” she said. She was wearing a khaki shirt with sleeves rolled up, and combat pants. In one hand she held an enormous toolbox.

“So, you have a sink problem,” she said, stepping inside.

“Among other things,” I said, ushering her to the kitchen.

 “My god!” she with what I presumed was a south Warsaw inflection. “You need a cleaner not a plumber.”

She made for the trap pipe.

“This is disgusting. You are single?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Homosexual?”

“No.”

“Gay men are tidier. You are an animal, right? Grrrr!”

“Yes, I am an animal,” I mumbled. If she had specified kangaroo I would’ve said yes.

“Let’s blitz this place,” she said.

“Did she just say that?” I thought, thinking god had UPS’d a cleaner.

“Knew that would wake you,” she said. “I need a bucket.”

I watched her poke around with the sink trap. She pulled out some gunk. Then she charged me £85.

“You could’ve done that yourself. Next time just send me the money.”

She washed her hands.

“Would you like to go for a date?” I said.

“What?” she said.

“Dinner, a date,” I said.

“With who?”

“Me.”

“No,” she said. “You are an animal.”

After my girlfriend left months ago, I kept away from women – without Celia I’d be celibate. Now here I was, hitting on the plumber. The next day I left her a message saying my boiler was not working. She didn’t get back. I said my drain was blocked. No answer. The flush is not working – nothing. I started running out of plumbing problems. Then, yesterday, a text arrived: “Up for that D8 Mr str8?”

Naturally I sent her a text back. That evening we went to The Sanitarium, a members club in Chelsea. Phil Bender was there, the comedian. She handed him her card: “Polski Plumber. Anna Karasiewicz. Chif ecexutive”.

The chif and I got tipsy and kissed. We ended up at her shoebox in Notting Hill. She refused to come to mine. (Couldn’t resist checking the taps at hers – great water pressure.) We kissed, violently. We tumbled onto her bed and took each other’s tops off. I was overwhelmed. 

“What’s the matter?” said Anna.

“Nothing,” I said, not letting on that George Bush Jnr had joined the coalition of the unwilling.

I backed away, upset. To save face I pretended I was having a turn. I put my Superman T-shirt back on and, to her amazement, left.

The next day I saw Archie in his driveway.

“How’s your plumbing?” he said.
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