Tea for One (part two)

I was turning the taps and nothing was coming out. No water, no jelly, no petrol. Nothing. I turned both taps both ways and then I turned other taps in other places in other directions but, alas, nothing was coming out. When I ran out of taps to turn and directions in which to turn them I gave up and resigned myself to the fact that I would have to find a man to come and fix it. Being completely unprepared for any situation, no matter how simple or straight-forward, I was paralysed with indecision and panic. How do I find a man? I thought. Like, a real man, not a useless one like myself. Who are these men that inexplicably turn up and make my water work again? Why do they do it? How much money do I give them? Do I tip them? What if he does a mediocre job? What if he doesn't want to make small talk? What if he makes too much small talk? What if we make small talk and he finds me boring and does not maintain an attentive countenance and I manage to pick up on his boredom? Technically he hasn't done anything wrong and the fault is mine, but the offence is there to be taken nonetheless. Do I still tip him? Is it ten percent like in restaurants or is it different for water fixers? And I think I heard once that now you aren't meant to tip ten percent but now it's twelve percent. Or was it fifteen? It's like tip inflation. But are tip inflation rates different for the men who fix my water? And how do I judge whether or not he has done a good job and if he is worthy of a tip? If I could critique water-fixers I would fix my water myself, I imagine.

Oh god, I had been asking questions to myself for fifteen minutes. It's a good job my time is worthless. What do I do? Internet. Do things with the internet. The internet will know someone who can fix my water. Where is the internet? On the box. Good. Right. I went onto Google and typed in “MY WATER IS NOT WORKING. SEND HELP.” Then Google searched for me and the first page of words was about people called plumbers. I knew that was the word. It was useful to get that learnt (or not learnt but at least remembered again and these days that is practically the same thing.) Yes, plumbers, that was what I needed. So the website was asking about where I lived and naturally I gave them my postcode, and miraculously they found a plumbing company that lived in my area. Brilliant. So I go over to my phone and put in the numbers on the screen and it starts ringing.

“Hello,” said a man, “Someone and Son's plumbing services, how may I help you?”

“My water,” I said, “it's broken.”

“How is it broken?”

“I don't know can't you tell me that? Can't you send a man or something?”

“Yes, I can send someone, but what's the problem?” He said in a tone that I assume was annoyance or weariness or pure hatred; I can't really remember.

“The water won't come out. I've tried all the taps in all the directions. It's hopeless. I'm going to die of thirst. Help me.”

“Okay, sir, just tell me your address and I'll send my colleague over straight away.”

So he took my address and thirty minutes later a van pulled up opposite my house. Great here's the plumber, I thought to myself, and I walked over the door and waited for the bell to ring. The bell rung and I counted to five so that I didn't open it too soon and reveal the fact that I had been waiting there ever since I saw the van pull up. I think this was slightly uncomfortable for them because my front door has a large, translucent window on it and it was obvious to both of us that we were staring at each other's smudged body shapes through the glass. Anyway I opened up the door and to my shock I saw not a man but a woman. My first reaction was one of anger; I had been swindled. This was not a plumber this was a woman.

“You're not a man,” I said to the woman.

“No...” She said. “I've come to fix your water. I'm a plumber.”

“But... You're a woman.” Such a fact was incomprehensible to me.

“God, Paul said you were slow. Can I come in?” And she walked past me towards my kitchen.

Who the hell is Paul? What has he been saying about me? Do I know a Paul? I don't know many people, I think I would remember if one of those people I know was called Paul. Did she mean Paula? Because Paula's a bitch, she would say that. I'm going to go call Paula right now and tell her how much I hate her and that she should stop talking about people behind their back... No wait... She definitely said Paul. One of these days I will find Paul, but by the time I had finished with these thoughts I heard a noise coming from my kitchen. Who was in my kitchen? Oh yes, the woman.

“The pipe's broken,” she said. “It looks like it's been sawn in half. Someone has written something in permanent marker.”

“Hmm... Yes... I see... No I don't understand.”

“It think it's a haiku... It says:

Elephants won't drink

From the bagpipes, I think;

To nothing I sink...”

“How strange,” I replied. What did she want me to say?

“It's utter nonsense. What does that even mean? There's not even enough syllables in the second line.”

“It's a work in progress, okay. What are you a critic?” God she was smug with her words and her talk about syllables.

“I'm sorry what? You wrote this?”

“What?” Oh god, panic. Quick, what do normal people do in these situations? What's the protocol? Is it tea? I think it's tea. I have definitely heard normal people say things about tea. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Please. I'm just going to the van for some spare tubing. I'll be right back.”

She left the house and closed the door and I realised I had let her leave without asking how she likes her tea. This was a nightmare I had all the time but I never thought it would actually happen. What was I to do? If she came back and the tea was not made and I was just standing there waiting she would think I was strange or totally incompetent, and while both are true I try my best to keep it a secret. But if I made her tea and I got it wrong then she would have to drink my disgusting tea and that would be hugely unpleasant for her. For the rest of her life she would remember me as the guy who made her a horrible cup of tea.

Do I even have tea? Yes, good. I'm just going to have to guess. What do people normally have in tea? I settled for one teabag, milk, two sugars, one cinnamon and one ginger, with a leaf of parsley in whipped cream on the top. Okay, so I misunderstood my own question; it happens sometimes. When she came back through the door I turned to face her, ready to present my mug of tea.

But facing her there in the kitchen, I was suddenly struck with an astonishing realisation: the woman, the plumbing woman, was exceptionally beautiful. Not just attractive like that woman who works late in Dominos and gave me a pizza for half price that one time because I didn't have enough change to cover the whole cost and I was crying and slightly inebriated. And she was not just pretty like the woman who works behind the bar at Wetherspoons on Mondays and Thursdays and always smiles at me when I stare at her as she gets prettier as the night goes on, but never beautiful. No, this plumbing woman person was actually beautiful, and naturally this was a total disaster.

I had been standing motionless and staring at her for a while with her tea in my hands, when her voice brought me back into the realm of reality.

“Um, is that... my tea?” She asked warily, looking at the mountain of whipped cream.

“Yes! I made it for you.” I said as I presented her with the sugary gift.

“Wow, I've never had whipped cream with tea before. Or... is that parsley?”

“Waitrose's finest parsley I'll have you know. Grown and hand-picked by Delia Smith on her own personal parsley farm in Norwich.” I hoped she didn't know much about parsley. It was Tesco value and I had stole it from my mother and used it in everything ever since when strangers came round in the hope of looking more sophisticated.

She took a sip from the unusual beverage and a bit of whipped cream was left on her nose as she took the mug away from her mouth. It made her look like a kitten. I was strangely aroused.

“It tastes... interesting.”

“It's a secret recipe. Passed down through generations. Just tea, milk, sugar, cinnamon and a secret ingredient.”

“Is it ginger?”

“No.”

“It tastes like ginger.”

“It's not ginger.” Damn she was smart. Smart and attractive. And she was a plumber; she had a practical use, which is more than could be said for me. My infatuation with such a remarkable woman could only be a terrible mistake. My case was hopeless. I should abort the mission immediately, I thought. I should go and take a cold shower fully clothed and cry and feel unbearably ridiculous fifteen minutes later when I emerge from the shower in sodden clothes and not even the slightest bit cleaner. But my water wasn't working, so I was forced to bear the torment of this intolerably beautiful woman.

It suddenly struck me that I did not know the name of this fantastic creature.

“What are you called?” I asked, wording the question as uncomfortably as possible for no obvious reason.

“I'm Beth” she replied, smiling. “And you?”

Ah Beth, what a lovely name. One perfect syllable. Rhymes with breath and Meth and death. How poetic, her name rhymes with other words. Maybe I'll write a haiku about it one day, I've already got three rhymes. Beth would love that. If there's one thing I know about women it's that they love a good haiku. That's why all the women loved Byron: he was a true craftsman when it came to the haiku. He could write a haiku using only sixteen syllables. It was really revolutionary stuff. And then Yeats came along and managed to write one in fifteen. What a genius. The women weren't as crazy about him though for some reason. I wonder why...

My thoughts were interrupted by her staring. Why is she looking at me?

“What?”

“What's your name?” She asked impatiently.

Wow, she actually wants to know my name. This is brilliant. A beautiful girl like her wanting to know my name. This reminds me of the time I was arguing with the man at the kebab van about the ratio of chicken to beef in my mixed kebab, and the police drove by and saw the terrible drama that was evolving at three o'clock on a Thursday morning, and—

Wait a minute, I can see where this is going. Quick, before I forget:

“It's Marcus.” I replied belatedly.

She looked bored. I think she was growing weary of my delayed replies. I wasn't quick enough. I wasn't putting my lightning fast repartee into action. What would Wilde say in this situation? Probably something brilliant about how things might not seem like other things but they are actually similar to those other things. My life would be so much easier if I thought in ironic witticisms. But I don't and it isn't. Instead I had to flounder about in an ocean of words and things and try and work out which ones to use and in which order so that I could impress this beautiful plumber.

“I like your hair. It's really blonde. It's like a banana or the sun or something.” I thought this line went down brilliantly. I mean, why not? Not only is it a heartfelt compliment, I also managed to exhibit my poetic prowess with an exquisite simile. One of my best ones yet. I must remember to write that one down for later, I thought.

“Um, yeah I guess it is, thanks...” She was loving it. Her arousal was practically tangible.

“Or like, one of those old fashioned yellow raincoats that fishermen wear. It's like that too.” I continued.

She smiled encouragingly.

“Those curtains are also yellow.” I said, pointing to the floral curtains hanging by the window in my lounge. Technically they were more of a maize or saffron. I was really grasping at yellow straws. She must have picked up on my poor attention to detail because she seemed eager to change the conversation. I was losing her.

“I should really fix this.” She said, turning toward the sink.

I was perceptive enough to pick up on the fact that as much as she enjoyed my elaborate imagery she had a job to perform, and wished to get it done. She was obviously very passionate about her work. I went into the lounge to watch T.V. and to consider my next move in this smooth old game of Lovechess. I almost had my queen in checkmate, and I was moving in for the kill. By the way in Lovechess you try and capture the queen and not the king. The killing is purely symbolic, the only things that actually die in Lovechess are my dreams, over and over again like some cruel game of whack-a-mole in an arcade played repetitively by a twelve year old with fourteen thousand pounds in fifty pence pieces and an infinite attention span. Seriously, why does my face keep popping out of the hole? There is nothing out there; just a moron with a hammer. I should just stay underground where it's dark and there's a T.V. But I always pop out nonetheless.

So here I was, safe in my underground lair with my T.V. and my sofa and a box of chocolates left over from my birthday, and I couldn't stop thinking about Beth and how I could poke my stupid face out of this lovely hole.