They went upstairs. A nervous woman in her seventies answered, holding a handkerchief. Behind her, a small, tidy living room. And on the armchair, a framed photograph of a little boy.
Mr. Somchai stared at it. “That’s not ours. We don’t have… children’s things.”
But Dave wasn’t smiling. He was looking at the rubber duck and the felt. drain unblocking epsom
Dave frowned. He went deeper. He swapped the corkscrew for the heavy-duty plunger head—a four-inch rubber disc on a steel shaft. He shoved it in, pumped twice, and felt the pressure build. On the third pump, the water in the gully didn’t rise. It fell .
For Dave, the owner of Drain Dynamo Epsom , that was practically a lie-in. He’d already been up since six, decoking a fatberg in Stoneleigh. He rinsed his gloves, grabbed the heavy-duty kit, and pointed his van toward the town centre. They went upstairs
Dave jet-washed the line anyway—three thousand psi, hot water, the works. By noon, the restaurant’s drains ran clear as a mountain stream. He charged his standard rate, plus the environmental disposal fee for the felt and the rubber. He wrote “toy dinosaur” on the invoice as a joke, then crossed it out.
Glug-glug-glug-shloop.
Dave shook his head gently. “The dinosaur didn’t make it.”