Waiting for the plumbers.

You know, there's nothing like splashing across the kitchen floor, early in the morning, desperate for a cup of tea. For one brief, shining moment, as you fill up the kettle from the tap and bung it back onto its electric base, you think that it's normal, somehow, to have a small lake for a kitchen floor. You admire how smooth it is, how the surface of the water glows in the early morning light. And then, then!

You begin to swear.

The cat chooses that moment to rush in, intent on her first meal of the day. She catches on much, much quicker than you did. She takes off for the living room, far away from the kitchen, leaving shiny wet paw prints all over the hall. She's swearing, too.

You, on the other hand, are still standing in a puddle of water, and the kettle hasn't boiled yet, either.

Good times.

It's six o'clock now, and the plumber arrived just a short while ago. I met the plumber about five hours ago, when he stopped in with the doorman to do a recon. If you are a plumber, it's very important to know exactly how you are going to demolish some poor sucker's kitchen. Then you wander off for several hours, in order to let your victim client sweat a little. This also gives the plumber ample time in which to fantasize about knocking big, jagged holes into walls and, I dunno, maybe masturbate or something. It also gives the plumber the opportunity to fetch his biggest sledgehammer, if he doesn't already have it in his plumber's vehicle, just in case.

I know this for a fact, because he's doing it right now. In fact, he wasn't here five minutes before the pounding started. He seems to have a very impressive sledgehammer, and he certainly sounds as if he's wielding it with enthusiasm.

I can't be certain, of course, because I refuse to go and see. I made Elvis go and let him in, when he finally showed up. I figure that, since I have already watched plumbers knocking big-ass holes into the walls of my previous apartments, I really don't need to see it again. Also, it is safer for both the plumber and myself if I do not, for the same reason.

Although-- and this bit is well worth pointing out-- the man in our kitchen has given out every indication of being an Actual Plumber. This is a marked improvement over a couple of dimwit cowboys with ass-baring jeans and a toolkit.

And a sledgehammer. Let us not forget the sledgehammer!

Our current plumber, the REAL plumber, has abandoned the sledgehammer now, in favor of a plain old hammer hammer. Yes, I can tell the difference, although I'm not entirely sure how big the hammer in question is. Big enough, in any case. Every so often, he drops something that makes a hellacious metallic clatter, and every so often his mobile phone rings. I'm not entirely certain, but his ringtone seems to be from The Nutcracker. It's either that, or Tales from the Vienna Woods. I ought to be able to tell the difference, but what with all that pounding and spending a day without water and everything, my brains are a bit addled.

That, and the flu. Did I mention that I have the flu?

I do. And to make it even better, so does Elvis, who woke up Sunday with a temperature so high I was tempted to fry an egg on his forehead. Not that I did, of course. Elvis hates eggs, and I would have been the one who had to clean it up in the end. And, you know, it seemed rather wasteful to fry up an egg when we have a fridge stuffed full of leftover turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce and the like.

And pie. Let's not forget the pie: I certainly haven't.

This year's Thanksgiving Feast went well. Sixteen people, I believe, although there were supposed to be over twenty. Quite a few had to cancel on account of illness. That damn flu-- making everybody's life so much better.

But it went well, as I said. We all had a great time, consumed an average of 1.5 bottles of wine per person, followed dessert with a bottle of limoncello, and ended up (the majority of us) at the Late Night Bar of Evil. I'm not sure what time we got home, but it was still dark outside so it couldn't have been too bad.

I had to mess with supplemental turkey this year-- an extra leg and one extra breast-- that appeared to have come from a four foot tall bird with the figure of Dolly Parton. Or J*rdan. (Please choose your cultural reference. Thank you.) The pumpkin pie turned out not too have been baked for long enough, leaving a very soggy and undercooked bottom crust. The filling, on the other hand, is perfectly cooked and extremely delish, so I've been scraping it off the crust and having it with ice cream for breakfast. The crust is full of unnecessary calories, anyway, and the ice cream and smooth pumpkin custard is very soothing on my sore throat. The apple pie, by the way, turned out all yummy and pretty, and I even cut pretty stars into the top crust for vent holes. The pastry, whilst fully cooked and therefore far superior to that of the pumpkin, was only so-so. It was alright, I suppose, although far, far less flaky than it should have been. As a result, I have finally faced up to the realization that I suck at pastry.

It could be worse. The turkey, for example, was perfect. All of it.

Faced with the dilemma of enduring a nervousness bases nicotine fit, or braving the plumber-fied kitchen for a packet of cigarettes, I chose the latter. I really wish that I hadn't. Hey Kids-- Don't ever let anyone tell you that smoking isn't bad for you.

In other news, I finished my NaNoWriMo novel.

Last Tuesday, in fact, although I worked on it for a while on Wednesday and Thursday. Thing is, although it has a beginning, middle and somewhat astonishing ending (mainly because it sails right out of the blue, with no warning to anyone, really), I'm not done with it yet. I intend to keep working on it, develop the plot, finish it properly, etc. After that it will need some significant rewrites, of course, so it ought to keep me busy enough. I had intended to work on it again yesterday, in fact, but I felt so terrible I spent the day on the couch, watching terrible daytime TV. (Although I did manage to avoid watching The Love Boat (O Barco de Amor), so it could have been worse.

Today, there was the plumbing and so forth, plus Elvis felt well enough to spend the day on the computer next to me, and he's not so good at keeping quiet and leaving me alone so I can at least attempt to write. He means well, I know, but he keeps forgetting, I guess. He went to the doctor today, and will be home again tomorrow. Maybe I can get him to surf the web from the living room so I can work in the office all by myself. As I recall, that was the whole reason he insisted we get the wireless network in the first place.

We shall see.

I hear water running in the kitchen sink, and what a welcome noise it is, too. Unlike the shrill howlling that our haunted pipes have started to emit for on an intermittent basis-- it's much, much worse than a burglar alarm, and seems to go on for just as long. My flu-induced headache cannot take much more of this. I guess it's time for me to make another foray in the direction of the kitchen and the plumber it contains.

If nothing else, I can at least be sure that I have a lot of cleaning up to do.