The House at Porter Street

I don't remember walking though a giant mouth, and lining up for tickets, but somehow I find myself continuing on the rollercoaster ride that is the House at Porter Street.

The red card from the gas inspector.

When last I wrote our position was a little grim as we passed a chilly night and anxiously awaited the prognosis from the plumber about the state of our pipes.  

This is the bit of rag holding together our broken pipe

Gladly another person's misfortune became our boon when a stranger's granite benchtops didn't arrive.  So instead of having to wait for Nick Plumber until after midday, he arrived around 10, bright and feisty and ready to get stuck in.


Within half an hour the broken pipe was out and I was despatched to a plumbing supply place, to get a bit of pipe to replace that which is depicted above.  


Now, I've been to Reece recently.  Bought a kitchen sink, if you recall.  Wasn't in any way struck by the place being particularly, um, manly.  So I didn't think twice about heading off to Tradelink while Nick Plumber had a cuppa with Mum and Milo.  I drive past it a couple of times a week.  It looks quite normal from the street: a bathroom showroom shopfront.  But once inside there's an eerie silence.  And no people.  Nothing happening. 


I looked about and was drawn to a sign with an arrow saying "Trade to rear".


Down a long corridor and through the looking glass, I found myself in what was physically a warehouse, but so generously infused with the essence of bloke and the aura of tradie, that without my realising or noticing, I had become invisible and irrelevant.  


Khe Sanh filtered through the air.


Behind the counter there was a young man, talking to a telephone about packing nuts and leak detection systems.  His name tag said Mark.  Beside him was a doorway with another sign barring civilians from crossing the threshold.  Men passed through the doorway, carrying things and tools and talking to unseen others.  I wondered why they couldn't see me.  


I'd been sent to ask for Mark. 


Daring not approach to doorway I instead embraced my inner Brit and waited patiently at the desk while Mark finished up his phone call and was about to start another when I must've magically materialised before him.


I asked if he was Mark with the 250mm pipe.  He stared.  My plumber, Nick rang before.  He told me to ask for Mark.  Mark said, Oh.  Mark.  There's more than one.  He leaned over to the mystical doorway, pushed it open and called.  An indeterminate number of voices responded.  Who knows about the 250 mil threaded gal?  Sounds like you do, I thought.  Although I wasn't eager to interrupt this curious charade.


After a few moments, another Mark emerged with the pipe. I reached out to take it.  Mark handed it to Mark.  My arm was still extended.  Mark placed it on the counter 5mm from my hand. 


I paid, claimed my purchase, and turned back towards the corridor leading up to the showroom, half expecting it to've morphed into a wall or a forest or a wardrobe or something. The thought occurred that I might be trapped there for ever.


By the time I got home, anticipation of a warm shower overwrote any musings about the mysterious place where men called Mark did manly things with bits of stuff.  I lived in hope that no more corrosive failures would be present and identified in my home.


Gladly this was the case.

Nick Plumber's youngest and happiest apprentice, filling in the hole.

And now the gas leak's fixed, for some reason, the hot water is undeniably hotter.  How can that be?