Summary
T is nine o'clock in the morning and I am staring into a septic tank. This isn't quite how I'd envisaged life after leaving London. At nine in the morning there, I would have just finished walking the dog and we would be making our way towards the Tube, due at work for ten. Instead, I am ankle-deep in mud and chatting to the septic tank man. It may not be the good life, but it is actually rather fascinating.
I finally bit the bullet and made the call last week. I had no choice: the smell was worse than the pigs and the water on the grass around the tank was rising to a good couple of inches.See the full content of this document
Extract
The Smells of the Country
However tight-fisted we try to be in this house, there are some things that have to be dealt with. Three days later the septic tank man turned up on the doorstep, complete with industrial rubber gl...
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