Drip.

Life for the last few weeks has been a bit of a saga. It started off with a Blip of a naked downstairs loo, we had decided that it needed some redecoration. There was nothing particularly wrong with its functionality but, sans wallpaper and with great cracks in the plaster work  there was a little work to be done. The mechanics were not particularly stylish, probably having been fitted when the house was built (c. 1880, since you ask) but it relied heavily on my engineering skills and a diminishing sheet of neoprene to keep it operational.
 
Anyway, having rendered the facility unusable and entered into negotiations with Herself about the new décor, a few other (mostly cycling) activities attracted my attentions. It was then that the cistern in the upstairs convenience cracked, necessitating a temporary repair with gaffer tape; when that failed the tape was replaced with a disgusting mastic tape that generally sticks like the proverbial to a blanket, to just about anything it touches. In fact, the stuff has kept the downstairs loo leak-proof for the last forty years. It does not, however, cope too well with a continuous one foot head of water and has developed a leak; close scrutiny of the Blip will reveal that there are numerous drips waiting to fall and one just beginning the actual process.
 
The collecting bucket is not quite large enough to last the night without being emptied, however, that is not actually a major problem as my recent inconvenient affliction means that I spend a lot of my time, both day and night, sitting - and listening to the incessant drip. In fact, I had to abandon my plans to attend a Blip meet today as I couldn’t countenance the prospect of ever being more than five minutes travel from a public convenience.

I fear that household maintenance needs to move up the priority list.