Last Tuesday, I walked outside to find a puddle the size of a small swimming pool. But this wasn’t a pool; it was a bubbling, gurgling geyser of murky mystery water. It smelled like a wet sock that had been arguing with a sewer for a week.
Apparently, a water main had decided to retire early, without notice. Thames Water’s response? A little plastic cone, sitting there like a brave soldier in the flood. It did nothing.
I called their hotline and got a cheerful robot that said my call was “important to them.” Important, sure—about as important as a chocolate teapot.
