Whose poo is that? Or just some comeuppance

Ok, so there was payback for my cosy-comfort-gloating. Just after nine o'clock, after a day of rumbling, gargling indigestion (not me, silly, keep reading!), the bathroom drain overflowed. Sewage spilled out from underneath the tub. And it wasn't even our sewage. Whenever someone in an apartment above us flushed or used the taps, it ended up on our floor (no, I didn't see any bits and pieces, thank god).

Well, not all of it. Some of it dripped down through the ceiling in the downstairs neighbour's newly done, costly bathroom.

Frantic action ensued. We called an emergency plumber service, turned off the water main, talked to all the people living on our side of the house, pulled our hair, watched the cat (who took the opportunity to freak out), and worried very much about what the insurance company would say and what had caused the flooding. Was it my hair? Pimsika's furballs? Waste material from the upstairs guy's redecorating? Rats? Aliens? Dinosaur poo?

I did feel that the theories veered into the territory of the Mole in the picture, if you know that book.

When the plumber came, he found out that the problem was a clot (yuck!) in the main pipe, and had absolutely nothing to do with us. And then he flushed it out with a high pressure thingy. Which means that we never found out what the clot actually consisted of.

Which also means that aliens or dinosaur poo were never really ruled out.

(I forgot to mention that the brave hero of this story was Peter. But it really was him.)