A 3 am trip for water that turned into a full kitchen war.
It was three o’clock in the morning when I woke up thirsty. Not just “a little parched,” but full-on, Sahara-in-my-throat, dry-mouth, desert-heat thirsty. I reached for my trusty jug—the big one from Reduce, the one that holds a litre and a half—and found it empty. Bone dry. Not even a rogue ice cube clinking around.
Fine. I’ll go downstairs and refill it. It’ll take two minutes. Wash the jug, refill it, come back up, and get back to bed. Simple.
Except… it wasn’t.
As soon as I got downstairs and made my way to the sink, I remembered—oh yeah. The sink’s been blocked for a few days. Not fully unusable, but enough to be annoying. I’d been putting it off because, you know, life. But now? Now I had no choice.
I turned on the hot tap, hoping maybe, miraculously, the heat would melt away whatever unholy gunk had lodged itself down there. My brother Stevie wasn’t even in the house, but I could already hear him in my head.
“Why is your tap so hot? Are you trying to boil the pipes?”
Every time. Every time I use that tap, he has something to say. But this time, I had a reason. Hot water melts grease, and if it was a grease issue, then heat was my ally.
Well. It didn’t work.
The sink just started filling up like it was preparing for a pool party. Okay. Plan B. I spotted the Mr. Muscle on the windowsill—the nice deep sill behind my butler sink, perfect for plants, cleaning sprays, and my mounting irritation.
In goes the Mr. Muscle. Thick gel. Vaguely menacing smell. Five minutes, the label said. I waited. I even did the full dramatic pause: “Five minutes later…”
Still blocked.
So I thought, bleach. Let’s go nuclear. I dumped that in too—not necessarily to clear the blockage, but to let it know I was serious. If it was bacteria, it wouldn’t be by the time I was done.
Now I’ve got a sink full of hot water, industrial-strength gel, and bleach stew. And still… blocked. I checked the Mr. Muscle label again. I’d missed a step. After five minutes, you’re supposed to flush it with hot water.
Right.
I grabbed my springy faucet hose—the one you can pull down and aim like a precision laser—and blasted that boiling water straight into the sinkhole like I was declaring war.
Nothing.
Okay, now I’m annoyed.
Out comes the plunger.
Normally it lives in the drawer under the sink, but today it was sitting out like it knew its time was coming. I grabbed it and started pumping. Pumping like my life depended on it. Pumping like I was trying to resuscitate a sunken pirate ship.
Still nothing.
More water. More pumping. Hot tap blazing like a dragon. And then—
WHOOSH.
The water rushed down like it had been waiting for the right dramatic moment to make its exit. So fast, it backfired and erupted upward before finally draining away completely.
If I had filmed it in slow motion, you’d have seen a geyser. A volcano. An exorcism.
Victory.
But the aftermath? Oh, the aftermath. All the little bits and pieces that had been lurking at the bottom came into view. Bits of food, gunk, maybe the ghost of dinners past. I couldn’t leave it like that. So out came the cloth, the antibacterial spray, the degreaser, the everything. I scrubbed like I was preparing the sink for a health inspection.
Finally, when the sink was sparkling, I remembered why I’d come downstairs.
The jug.
I washed it properly—straw, lid, seal and all. Gave it the full spa treatment. Then I walked over to my lovely Samsung fridge with the ice and water dispenser. I filled the jug with ice, then topped it up with cold water so it would stay chilled throughout the day.
Job done.
I came back upstairs and checked the clock. It was 5:30 in the morning.
I had spent two and a half hours unblocking a sink, cleaning a jug, and staging a solo kitchen war—all because I was thirsty.
But the jug was full, the sink was clear, and my sides hurt from laughing at myself.
Unravelled? Yes. But in the best way possible.
Bonus Scene: The Great Bladder Betrayal
Let me just say this while I’ve got you. Because it’s important.
Why—why—does running water make you want to go to the bathroom? I’m fine, I’m composed, I’m in control… until I hear that tap running. And suddenly, my bladder is like, “Oh? It’s time, is it?” No. It’s not time. Stand down.
And don’t get me started on the front door betrayal. You know what I mean. You’re coming off the bus, or you’re walking home, and you think you’ve timed it perfectly. You’re calm. You’ve got this. You’re going to make it.
Then you see your front door.
And your bladder goes: “NOPE.”
All systems go. Knees tighten. Pace changes. You start doing the Sim waddle. You’re halfway up the stairs, doing motivational speeches in your head. “Almost there. You’re doing great. Don’t blink.”
Then you get to the door. You haven’t even reached the toilet yet. And suddenly it’s like:
“I HAVEN’T REACHED YET. STOP. THIS IS NOT THE TIME.”
It’s treachery. Absolute treachery. And it happens every single time. That bladder? Zero loyalty. Not even sorry about it.
Anyway. That’s just something I thought I should mention. While we’re being honest.
Unravelled? Still. And somehow… still standing.
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