The fatberg chronicle

‘Just going outside to check the gully trap,’ says Arnie.

‘I’ll show you,’ I reply.

‘It’s okay — I know where it is.’

Of course he does. Arnie’s the plumber who replaced the inert waste disposer shortly after we moved in (I still maintain that I had no hand in its demise, but no one believes me); who fixes the hot water system when the shower refuses to deliver anything warmer than liquid nitrogen; who comes to the rescue when the washing machine floods the laundry. He’s almost a member of the family. If I ever had an unsatisfied urge to hug a plumber, I’d pick Arnie.

I was eight when I first encountered a plumber — Roy, a ferretlike man, little taller than me, who came to decongest the toilet. I assumed he was built small so he could squeeze into drains. Arnie couldn’t be more different; he’s a big, jovial fellow who probably bends pipes with his bare hands and rips up phone books in his spare time.

Friends complain how difficult it is to engage a plumber; but Arnie’s different. He responds to my calls for help with astonishing alacrity — perhaps he senses my talent for domestic devastation and fears that, if he leaves me to my own devices for more than a few hours, I’ll inadvertently trigger a flood or an explosion. He doesn’t want to get the blame.

I’ve never confessed my domestic mishaps to him — how I’ve dissed the dishwasher, trashed the toaster, and practically wrecked the oven, to mention just a few — though he’s probably guessed. But my kitchen is by no means a wasteland strewn with debris; on the contrary, most of the appliances have always worked perfectly, despite the worst I can do to them. The food processor has been fighting its corner these many years without mishap. The coffee grinder continues to grind coffee — what more could I ask of it? And then there’s the… well, at the moment I can’t think of any other artifact that’s survived my attentions unscathed. But there must be more than two. And I’m still trying to come to terms with my trouble last Thursday. Which wasn’t my fault. No, really. Well, hardly at all…

*

I begin the after-dinner washing-up ritual as usual, dumping the scraps down the waste disposer and rinsing everything. Normally I turn on the tap, flip the switch, listen for the graunching rattle of a teaspoon that has thrown itself down the maw of the grinder, switch off, remove the teaspoon, and start over. The machine emits its normal scrunching noises, swirling the water-gunge mixture around the sink before sucking it into oblivion. It burps to indicate that it’s sated, and I’m done.

But this time, while the scrunching and swirling continue, the water level creeps steadily upwards until the sink is three-quarters full of a greasy soup of tea leaves, meat scraps, potato peel, and other morsels I’d rather not catalogue.

There’s a routine for handling this. I switch off the grinder and poke around its depths with a knife to dislodge whatever’s stuck inside. Once satisfied that the problem’s fixed, I resume operations. This produces the same result as before, except that the tide continues to rise. I command it to stop, with no more success than King Cnut. In no time, the whole nasty brew is threatening to overflow onto the floor. I stop, hoping for some magical overnight solution.

Next morning my strategy has apparently succeeded: the water’s gone, leaving behind a crusty scum of finely granulated vegetation and fat. Once I’ve cleaned this off, the sink is pristine and sparkling, leaving me merely to complete proceedings by giving the waste disposer a final run. To be sure, I carry out another precautionary rummage with a knife before unleashing the cascade and throwing the switch.

With water almost lapping at the benchtop, I give up and call Arnie. By the time he arrives, the tide has partially subsided; he tops it up and then generates a mini-tsunami by giving his plunger some vigorous subaquatic exercise. When calm returns, nothing’s changed. Running the waste disposer once more doesn’t improve matters either.

Having inspected the gully trap, Arnie summons me by text message. He shows off his trophy — a greasy, greyish, potato-sized lump.

‘Here’s your problem.’

I shudder. ‘What’s that?’

‘A fatberg.’

‘Fatberg?’

‘Yeah. This one’s a tiddler. Last year they found one blocking a London sewer — 300 tons and half a mile long.’

‘That’s revolting.’ The involuntary vision of a fatty clump half a million times the size of Arnie’s handful nauseates me.

He looks at me as an uncle might glower at a naughty nephew.

‘I told you before — don’t put fat and oil down the sink. Never. No coffee grounds or tea leaves either. Or you’ll have me moving in with you permanently.’

I’m not good at looking sheepish, but I try. ‘But the manual says you can put just about any food scraps in the waste disposer, doesn’t it?’

‘Trust me — it’s bullshit. The guys that sit in offices writing bloody manuals don’t have to get fatbergs out of bloody drains.’

I’ve learned my lesson. And more: before he leaves Arnie provides a short course in gully trap obstruction. The kitchen waste going gurgle-pause-gurgle is a pretty reliable harbinger of imminent blockage, though swift action may still avert it. But when this progresses to glug-pause-glug — you need a well-trained ear to detect the difference — I’m in trouble.

The waste disposer is going to find life a bit boring. But I dare not take the risk of using it again. Just in case, I’m keeping handy a multi-stranded length of fencing wire (gully traps, for the poking of) and a substantial dose of optimism. And I’ll have to find space for a bigger trash bucket.

I was tempted to give Arnie a hug as he left, but he might have misunderstood. And I know I’m going to need him again.

Born in London, Roger Chapman luckily survived the twin hazards of wartime rationing and post-war British food. Only his parents’ decision to emigrate to New Zealand in the 1950s forestalled lifelong indigestion. After practising law for 45 years, he realised that life was too difficult to take seriously: these days he’s busy poking fun at pomposity, confronting the malice of his kitchen appliances, and overcoming the embarrassment of his frequent culinary debacles.