Waste Water

All my mates said I had a crap job. But I was happy – sewage is important, the Romans knew that. Dad always wanted me to do something more exciting, talked about missed opportunities. I think he was talking about his own life, he lived in the house he was born in and only went outside the county on special occasions, and I can’t remember any of those.

 Besides, the waste treatment works is one of the biggest in the country. I was quite proud when I was promoted to Head of Water Quality. I had a few teething problems I must admit. Only after the third outbreak of dysentery did I realise that you could only dump the overflow when the tide was going out. 

It was the local fishermen that caused the uproar. Dumping dead fish on the doorsteps of the local councillors and complaining that we were dumping in the local river. As if! We might have the occasional overspill but tell me a water company that doesn’t. The fishermen said that dumping had become a regular habit. We’re all human. 

So, the councillor in charge of Water and Estates (funny combination if you ask me) decides she’s coming over for an inspection tour. I got the lads cleaning everything in sight and, for a whole week there was no overspills into the river. We even got some live fish on the morning of the visit and let them loose half a mile upstream. It was unfortunate to see them floating by just as the councillor arrived, but we steered her into initial screening and pumping. 

Our eyes met in the sludge storage area. She later described it as a frisson of excitement. I looked it up. Frisson is a sudden, often pleasurable, sensation accompanied by a tingling feeling, sometimes triggered by deep emotional moments.

 Well, that was it. Before you could say ‘Pioneering Excellence in Purity’ I was up to my neck in frisson. Geraldine became a regular visitor to the sewage works and she’d roll me out every time the media wanted a lie, I mean statement, about waste water. Three months later, and with the frisson still going strong, my relationship with Geraldine was moving at a rate of knots. The wedding was a vague idea in February and over and done with by May. 

To be fair I was very happy, especially when Geraldine revealed her new plan. The council were moving the bus depot to a new location. The staff canteen was at the front of the old depot on the side of a dual carriageway. Geraldine said if I made her an offer (she couldn’t make one to herself obviously) she’d easily get it past the other councillors because they were completely absorbed by the potholes versus education debate. We would be the owners of what could become a splendid roadside café. A lick of paint and some new plastic tablecloths and we’d be up and running. 

I only needed to offer a pound because the council were desperate to unload what had become a white elephant. There’s a posh boarding school nearby and with the promise of a night in the pub (the boys were underage, but I knew the landlord) they were more than happy to smash a few of the front windows. That sealed the deal with the council. Especially when Geraldine mentioned the possibility of arson. 

The café had to be in my name so that nobody could claim Geraldine had a personal interest. One of the other councillors did mention this but Geraldine organised it so that his wife became the bona fide owner of a disused yard in a prime development area.

So, we bought the canteen, I left my crap job and low and behold we were entrepreneurs.

It was a disaster. 

Geraldine wouldn’t lift a finger except the ones she had in the till. I was run ragged ordering stock, cooking, waiting on tables and cleaning. Everything went downhill when I started complaining. She had a scary temper and was a very good shot with cups, saucers, in fact anything she could lay her hands on.

 The final nail in the camel’s back was when she’d booked herself a fortnight in Madeira. I made some comment about having her cake and eating it. Geraldine flew of the handle and launched a serviette dispenser at me. I threatened to call the police and at that point she went upstairs to our flat. She came back quarter of an hour later with two packed suitcases.

‘I’m off to Madeira and Clifford is coming with me.’

‘Clifford?’

‘Clifford is the Head of Waste Collection,’ she said. He’s got a villa in Funchal and wants somebody to pamper. I volunteered.’

And that’s the last I saw of Geraldine. 

So here I am, accidental café owner. Married, deserted and divorced in the space of six months. I’ve employed Julie and Graham, although they don’t make much difference. Julie rings in sick every Monday and spends the rest of the week on her phone planning the coming weekend. Graham, bless him, hasn’t a clue. Yesterday, I found him trying to warm up some sausages in a bowl of hot water. 

I do think Dad would have been proud of me though. 

Life should be a big adventure he used to say. 

Look at me, crap job to crap café in the blink of an eye.