The Weight of Water

THE WEIGHT OF WATER



“Would you please stop doing that?” I screamed at my four-year-old son. I was on the telephone in the kitchen, trying to get a plumber to come and stop the water that gushed out of the washing machine. I was knee deep in sudsy, grey water and was already thinking about how long it would take to clean out the cabinets that were no doubt flooded. Rather than being perturbed by the mess, Oscar seemed delighted by it and was gleefully tossing toys, pens and anything else he could lay his hands on into the muck.



This was the sixth plumber I’d called, and I was getting desperate. “Get out from there!” I ordered, stretching as far as the phone cord would let me. Oscar was bent over, nose practically underwater as he trawled the floor for his sunken treasure.

“But Mum…”

“But nothing! Oh….” The plumber came on the line. “Yes. My washing machine seems to have overflowed. My kitchen is pretty much submerged right now. Do you think you could come?”



After the plumber’s assurances that he would be there shortly, I waded across to the folding doors behind which the culprit sat. It took some effort to open the doors with the weight of water pressing against them, but I managed. More water poured out, soaking the front of my shirt.

“I can see your boobies!” Oscar giggled.

“Shut up!” I snapped, but I was smiling now, unable to stop it. It was a disaster, yes. But the absurdity of the situation was beginning to get through to me.

“C’mon,” I said to Oscar. “Let’s bail out.”



I opened the back door and let the tidal wave out of the kitchen, waterfalls flowing down the porch steps.