Here We Go Again !

Advance warning of severe weather on Friday! I stared at the Fifth Horseman of the Apocalypse, otherwise known as the weather forecaster, in disbelief. Nine cms of rain, my life, thats four inches in old money. There was a terrible sense of déja vu as we hauled the sandbags into place ready for flood diversion away from the patio and door.
The hole in the wall for the tumble dryer is now bricked up, ditto the airbricks.
The barrier across the boiler house door is firmly screwed into place, the joints reinforced with bath sealant, 49 sandbags protect the stables ( and piglets ) and a coal merchant's old 56lb weight sits atop the lid to the leaf filter of the underground rainwater tank.
A subsidary ditch now forms a rampart across the field behind us. We batten down the hatches and wait.

It starts at midnight, it rains, rains and rains. By daytime the lawn begins to over flow and a cascade starts to tumble off the steps into the patio, gently at first but gaining courage it becomes a force to be reckoned with. We watch as the level silently and enexorably rises. Imagine our joy as it dawns on us that the water is flowing away at the same rate at which it arrives. The river past the backdoor is a mere 3 inches deep.
Hurrah we are going to be OK.

Hark what is that plopping noise? It is the water running down inside the chimney breast. A chimney which I hasten to add, could lose several small boys in its capacious interior. Buckets and dishes and four bath towels to the rescue we catch the flow fast enough to prevent carpet damage.
The curtains in the dining room seem to darken, is this an over active imagination? No, it is water seeping through the lath and plaster walls, running down the windows and being soaked up by the accommodating curtains, the carpet is in fact already sodden. More towels etc etc etc.
The rain continues unabated. How is our only neighbour doing? They are completely moated by now but OK.
I inspect the chickens. Everything you have ever heard about wet hens is true. We catch them, one by one and shut them in their house, which happily is on posts 4 ft off the ground. They do not look relieved, merely very cold.
Poppy is supposed to be on a train to London, no trains are running.

We watch the news and listen to the local radio with rising horror and become fervently grateful we have fared so well.
Roads are closed, buses cancelled, cars abandoned, rivers burst their banks, bridges collapse, caravans are washed downstream.

The emergency services, as ever, rise to the occasion.

No one dies, pets are airlifted out in the arms of loving owners, brave men pull drivers out of submerged car sun roofs, a wonderful bride actually laughs as the church is isolated and she spends her "reception" in an adjacent care home, a very pregnant woman is boated to dry land.

I wonder, is this what our parents meant by the "Dunkirk Spirit?"

I Blame the Glastonbury Mud

No I wasn't there, but the mud Poppy kindly brought home in her hair was probably a significant factor in the following events.
Standing in the shower it began to dawn on me, I'm not a quick thinker in the mornings, that water was lapping round my ankles. Things did not appear to be as they should in the drainage department. I need to clean the U bend I thought.
First remove the side of the bath. An easy task involving only eight screws. Levering the side down proved harder as it was sealed into place with something NASA should use to fix heat shield tiles to Challenger.
By kneeling down and assuming contortionist postures access to the pipes was finally achieved over the still attached bath panel. The U bend was firmly wedged between the bath and floor. Brute force was the order of the day and eventually wrenching it out and clearing it of its unspeakable contents proved relatively easy. Putting it back together again was quite a different matter. Try as we might, Poppy having joined the battle by this time, it proved to be physically impossible to get everything into place.
Unscrewing the plughole to lift the pipe junction seemed logical at first but no, once unscrewed, the self tapping screw no longer screws back up again. By kneeling in the bath whilst my builders mate, Poppy, shoved her fingers up the overflow pipe and held the nut in place, we finally managed to get some semblance of a U bend in place. It seemed a wise precaution to wrap a towel around it before admitting defeat and calling the plumber.

How High's the Water Mama?

Using WiFi suddenly became a very unattractive option as a bolt of lightning hit the lawn outside the window and I scurried round pulling aerials and plugs. Poppy, (wearing pyjamas ) and I ate supper in a leisurely manner and then I walked outside to encounter a sheet of water pouring past the back door. Skirt shoved into my underwear, and feet into wellies I struggled against the flow to the patio to watch a very muddy rising tide overtake the air bricks and rise inexorably up the patio door. With a jolt realisation dawned that this was serious stuff and the situation was fast getting out of control. Poppy developed super human strength and with the help of our neighbour we built a flood barrier in an attempt to alter the course of what was now a river. Thank God for the 20 bags of unspread compost which formed a diversionary tactic and partially persuaded the water to flow mostly around the house instead of through it.
We both remembered the piglets at the same moment and since water was now pouring through the stables with a force worthy of Hercules, waded through the surging flow fighting hysteria. No piglets visible in field, yard or stable. Finally located them balancing on logs in the wood pile and heaved them onto higher ground and into their ark.
At some point, Poppy still sporting pyjamas, stepped into the leaf catcher drain which keeps rain water tank clean and vanished up to her thighs. Thankfully after in a relatively short space of time the flow slackened and as levels fell we retired to the house. I had omitted to don socks with my wellies and they were now welded to my feet. Lying on the kitchen floor trying to remove them we succumbed to incapacitating laughter.
A narrow squeak.Damage limited. Viz. Rainwater tank full of mud and grot.
Boiler house flooded and motor on boiler dead. Water in through tumble dryer vent and mud all over utility room floor.
Carpet sodden next to utility room. Stable and shavings and straw sodden and not a little smelly.
No one hurt, nothing irreparable done. Some poor souls are totally washed out.
God Bless the fire brigade who came and pumped out the rainwater tank 48 hours later, drank copious cups of tea ( well boiled water! ) and vanished from whence they had come.
Water came back for a second try five days later but we were ready. 159 sandbags filled and strategically placed around stable, boiler room and patio. For those who like esoteric info, 1 metric ton fills 39 sand bags!!
I must confess though that now the thunder of rain on the sky light makes me a little twitchy.