When the taps run dry
9th May, 2007

My friend assured me that they had plenty of water on the south side, which wasn't much help when you lived on the north side of the river's great divide. I put down the phone and my wife turned on the kitchen tap, which again produced a series of gurgles and hisses reminiscent of an intestinal reaction to an overly spiced curry, but no more than a few drops in the way of water. The last time this happened the council's water police had driven up and down the street with loudhailers, warning people of the imminent, temporary loss of supply while maintenance was carried out. We immediately filled the sink, both bathroom basins and every empty container we could find and sat down to wait it out. If there had been a warning this time, neither of us had heard it, just the hiss-gurgle-burp of the tap. I checked the fridge to calculate our liquid reserves - a bottle that had once contained a particularly poisonous Portuguese rosé, now filled with cold water; an unopened bottle of equally challenging chardonnay, and half-a-dozen assorted stubbies. We had two bathrooms so, flush-wise at least, we were in reasonable shape. I had just entered the shower when I recalled the water had been cut off. If you want to feel ridiculous, stand naked in the shower, twisting the taps left and right and staring up at the shower head as if somehow, by the sheer power of your will, you can cause water to gush forth. After several minutes you realise the only way you are going to improve your personal hygiene rating is to drench yourself in deodorant, because no matter how long you stand there staring up at the shower, you're not going to get any cleaner. So I went through the hiss-burp tap exercise in the kitchen again and tried not to dwell on being confined to two toilet flushes, which turned my mind back to the events of that afternoon. My wife and I had been in an older-style city office block when she had felt an extremely urgent need to use the conveniences.    "What about these?" I said, flinging open a door and revealing a room equipped with the requisite plumbing fixtures.    "But it's a men's," she cried.    "Don't worry," I assured her. "I'll stand guard outside the door." An inclination to daydream is one of my many failings and as I waited outside the door, I succumbed to my famous tennis player fantasy, the one that involves me wallowing in adulation and money in approximately equal quantities. I was at a particularly enjoyable part of my fantasy, the bit where I am guest of honour at a glittering sports gala in New York and being hailed by the Big Apple's rich and famous, when I detected movement out of the corner of my eye. I only caught a glimpse of him as he barrelled down the corridor and pushed through the door. He was moving fast and I was having such a lovely time in New York that I reacted too slowly and before I could move to block him, he had pushed his way through the door. There was a shriek, followed by a pause and then a clattering of high heels on tiles as my wife, red-faced and in a state of some agitation, appeared at the door.    "What happened to 'I'll stand guard'?" she hissed between clenched teeth.    "He was too quick for me," I said, a response as pitiful as it was inadequate. It was also very poorly received, and I was left trailing behind her as she stormed down the corridor muttering imprecations. It had been a trying day and now I was waterless. When we awoke the next morning the water was running again, but be warned: Always keep at least three bottles of water in the fridge and never offer to stand guard outside a toilet.

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