Now we actually have two systems, a well (the pump is currently out of action presumed dead) and a bore hole. As long as the electricity supply is available we have, to all intents and purposes, a water system much like everyone else’s, except for the fact that once the tanks are filled the onward flow gravity fed (no hose pipes or power washers for us).

I have documented elsewhere the belt ‘n’ braces approach I took after two flooding incidents, whereby I had an additional pump float valve added to a second of the three tanks in the attic, along with a very hi-tech water detector alarm coupled to an alarm system (the excellent Vocaliser from Pyronix) which has an inbuild GSM facility, so can text me when the water might be about to overflow.

Recently the system has been trouble-free. Occasionally the box of elec-trickery trips out and the tanks eventually drain before we realise anything is wrong; and so it was the other evening I heard the good lady wife calling down to say that the cold water had stopped flowing whilst running a bath.
A quick check revealed that the pumping system was all Ok and the kitchen taps worked fine, so I went upstairs. The sink taps were fine too, as was the shower and the hot water to the bath.
The cold tap to the bath had no flow, so I scratched my head a few times, did a few sharp intakes of breath just like a plumber on the cusp of delivering a hammer blow, soon to be followed by a pound symbol, some arbitary digits and followed by several zeros.
I left it overnight having tried all the taps for a while to see if it was an air lock, but by the morning it was still not flowing.
There had been a few “bits of black” according to Lydia, though I hadn’t seen them as they’d gone down the plughole by the time I had arrived on the scene.
So I called on my secret engineering weapon, a man who only goes by the name “molosar” (he works under cover) and by the time he arrived I had a theory.
“Molosar” found which of the taps, valves and screws (from a fair array dotted around the place) isolated the single tap and set to, taking it to bits.
As he worked on I suggested it might be … and shortly after I told him what I thought it was he plucked out the very thing.
A bat (out of a well)!

Petrol stations which are off the motorway or major trunk roads in this neck of the woods close at 7pm. I noted on the way down that the large service station at Scotch Corner appeared to be ‘blacked out’, so decided not to go back that way but to go ‘cross country’ instead.

After about 20 minutes we realised the blunder (well the blunder was placed firmly at my door to be exact) and the drive continued at a very measured pace. Realising that there were no petrol stations open anywhere between our position and home we placed our faith in not running out too soon before using the emergency gallon in the boot.

At Garsdale head (a pretty remote location at the best of times, very dark and cold this time of year) the gallon can was emptied into the tank.

The journey lasted an hour and a half all told and we just made it. The question is, will we run out of petrol before completing the 8 miles to the nearest station in the morning?

At least I have an excuse to stay indoors and immerse myself in music as I get the most of my Napster seven day trial. For fans of jazz and Joni Mitchell I can recommend Herbie Hancock’s “River: The Joni Letters”.

More ranting on the same topic at The RockMan.

I got out my trusty wooden nightstick (a length of curtain pole) and moved as stealthily as a stealthy thing towards the bedroom door (quitely crapping myself). After what seemed like hours of silence I ventured slowly out onto the landing before gaining sufficient confidence to check other rooms and finally the attic.

We couldn’t fathom it out at all. Lydia’s theory was the wind and whilst we have had some severe gusts recently there was little in the way of weather. Eventually we put the lights out and went to sleep at about 1:30am.

I had set the radio alarm to go off an hour earlier (and forgotten about it) in the vain hope that I might get out of bed at a decent time, but with the late night and the strange episode I dozed through pretty much the whole hour’s transmission. I kept hearing about an earthquake (or did I dream it). When my tea arrived (yum – thanks Mrs wife) Lydia declared there had been an earthquake in England and that’s what we’d experienced in the early hours. Being me, I dismissed it as nonsense and thought I still might be in the dream sequence (the tea was very realistic). I told my imaginary wife of the dream that we couldn’t possibly be affected by an earthquake in Market Rasen, Lincolnshire – except that the BBC states that tremors were felt Cumbria as well as Wales and Ireland.

Best get Vince up here with his kit pretty sharpish to check out the local fault lines – and I’m not talking BT.

This morning I decided to go for the ‘off-chance’ and unplugged everything. It works! (but that instruction has disappeared from the manual overnight).

My UPSs, now known as Useless Pieces of Shit failed me miserably last night when our local transformer (in the back garden) gave a spectacular fireworks display in the middle of a storm.

One kept going but wasn’t correctly configured to support some of the equipment so I couldn’t shut some things down, one died completely and the other had insufficient battery power but had never warned previously (the audible alarm must have packed in some time ago too).

So of the three, one won’t power at all, one won’t charge and the other is not much use in its current state as the bloke who looks after the office hadn’t wired it correctly.