That’s the house sold, then. To the ex-girlfriend of one of my five-a-side friends. Small place, this.
It absolutely pissed down on Thursday night, which was unfortunate, since I’d left the car window open. I haven’t seen such soggy upholstery since ushering pensioners out of a Daniel O’Donnell concert. The floor and seat were absolutely soaked, but I drove into work, manfully.
I didn’t drive home, though, because running the heater to dry her out had drained the battery. Balls.
After a jump-start on Saturday, I drove round to my folks’ to use their dehumidifier. Everything went great guns, with every bead and drop of water giving it up eagerly, gracefully withdrawing from the fabric and condensing in the bucket. It ran that way for a good fifteen hours or so, until next door’s cat started playing with the extension cord, destabilising the dehumidifier and upsetting several pints of water straight back on the floor, the whiskery ginger fucker.
The extraction continues.
Someone up there is laughing at me.