This Can't Be Happening 3.1

The saga has ended.

For now.

Twenty-seven hours have elapsed since the latest round of the Battle of the Biffy began. If you live in Hong Kong, I warn you: Never move into an old Chinese building. The management of these ancient structures is a joke; it gives incompetence a bad name. Its efforts at plumbing repair consisted of an elderly man with a snake. He'd been at it for some time with no discernible progress.

Then he did what no one else was willing or able to do: jerry-rigged the plumbing so we could resume living normal lives. Let me give you some background before I tell you of his inelegant but acceptable interim solution.

I saw the innards of the building and its plumbing system; in a word: awful. Access is gained through an empty shop (when it's not padlocked shut and the caretaker has left for the night with the key in his pocket) via the common area at ground level. The shop is without power and filled with junk left behind by its previous tenants. Resident rats flee while human beings poke about.

Whatever was blocking the system forced backed-up waste water through the plumbing's joints, sending it cascading down pipe exteriors. Fluid spewed from holes in the building; safety drains tucked along the wall of each flat's bathroom. Judging by the stream's volume, it wasn't toilet overflow.

The daylight filtering into the narrow gap between the buildings was inadequate. The service passage was shrouded in gloom and the light was fading fast. The old man worked by the glow of a candle: a thin red taper used in Buddhist shrines. The flame was no bigger than that thrown by an average cigarette lighter.

The building management was useless. They stated outright that should he prove unable to solve the trouble, we'd have to wait until tomorrow. Again. They behaved as though our problems were minor, at best. They were more interested in going home than in handling their responsibilities.

I was livid when I heard that. I'd lost sleep staying up all night, and all the bending and bailing wasn't doing my dodgy hip any good. On top of that, I've developed a respiratory problem that a lack of rest isn't helping to improve. In short, I'm both sick and tired.

To his credit, the old man did not give up. When it became obvious he couldn't clear the blockage, he took matters into his own hands. I heard sawing and wondered what the heck he was up to; he'd torn a large hole in the pipe that allowed waste to flow into an uncovered sewer line. The pressure was relieved; we would suffer no more backups.

He intends to return, locate the blockage in the sewer system and remove it. I assume he'll repair the damage he did to the outer pipes. If so, we may once again be faced with a backed-up toilet.

No way in Hell will I let that happen. We've located a new flat in a four-year-old estate. We're going to inspect it a second time, but it looks to be the best of the lot. One way or another, we're getting out.

I pity the folks who move into this flat after we vacate.

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