She laughed. “You’re in Epsom, love. There’s no such thing.”
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.
Back in the van, he radioed his wife, who ran dispatch from their spare bedroom. “One more job before home?” she asked. drain unblocking epsom
Mr. Somchai stared at it. “That’s not ours. We don’t have… children’s things.”
It was solid. Not a simple wodge of wet wipes. Something structural. He pulled the rod back. On the end, tangled in black slime, was a child’s rubber duck. Cheerful. Yellow. And next to it, a small, matted clump of what looked like felt. She laughed
He walked to the manhole cover in the alley, levered it up, and shone his torch down into the junction where the restaurant’s waste pipe met the main sewer. There, wedged sideways, was the culprit: a sodden, blackened, plush toy—a dinosaur, maybe, or a dragon—and wrapped around its tail, a tangle of dental floss and hair. The duck had been the advance guard.
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. He’d already been up since six, decoking a
Dave crouched by the main gully outside the back door. He lifted the grate. No flow. Black water sat flush with the top of the pipe. He took his long, coiled drain rod—the one with the corkscrew attachment—and fed it in.