Daze of morning

I have dealt with floods in my time, mostly connected with washing machines.

In our old house in Collinson Street, our machine was in the kitchen, one step down from the living room. The hose had to be settled and anchored into the kitchen sink, and on more than one occasion, one of us, in muddy-brained early-parental sleep deprivation, would forget and it took a matter of seconds for the east end of the kitchen to be awash.

I don't think it happened that frequently, but often enough for us to resignedly strip off socks and shoes, roll up our trouser-legs and wade in to begin damage control.

One of my favourite memories is of elder daughter, then about two or three, appearing on the living room step, barefooted and trousers rolled, declaring, "I weddy!"

There's no washing machine in our current apartment - which can't be helped - and no plug in our kitchen sink - which can. I took pictures, and procured a replacement from the hardware store.

Maybe this was a bad idea.

I was in bed just after dawn, keeping out of the way of my husband's Virgoan rituals of washing and dressing and preparing to go to work.

I may have been dozing when I heard a high pitched moan from beyond the bedroom door.

"Oh no! Oh, noooooooooooooo...."

No response to my inquiries, so I peered out into the hall and took in the slightly-less-than-alluring sight of the Resident Fan Boy in his half-pulled-on underwear. He continued his strange morning wail, gazing into the kitchen. I stepped up and peered over his shoulder.

There was about a quarter inch of water covering the floor and soaking into both ends of the wall-to-wall carpet, courtesy of the overflowing kitchen sink.

"Perhaps you could turn off the tap," I suggested. Years of teaching, hospice volunteering, home support work, and parenthood have taught me that panic only feeds panic.

He hesitated momentarily, no doubt loathe to soak his socks, and waded in.

He had decided to fill the sink, then absent-mindedly gone to get dressed, only realizing his predicament when he heard the water. He figured it had been running for about ten minutes.

"What do you want me to do? How can I help?" he pleaded.

"Just get dressed and go to work," I replied grimly, setting to mopping up with every towel in the house. The water had gotten into pretty well every drawer and lower cupboard on the east side of the kitchen, and had trickled into the stove. I tossed saturated towels into the now empty sink, and turned out the drawers, reasoning that it was a great opportunity to clean.

In between deposits and wringings, I slowly got dressed, in case someone came banging at the door.

Instead the phone rang, about an hour or so into my labours. It was the fellow filling in for the building manager, courteously inquiring if there had been a plumbing problem.

The dining room in the apartment downstairs had flooded.

The RFB, being a lawyer, checked our insurance, but nothing has been said, aside from arrangements to clean the wet parts of the carpets upstairs and downstairs.

I suspect our damage deposit has been washed away.