Holy Moly
Guess what I’ve been doing this week: (a) hosting a cocktail party for our new neighbours; (b) perusing a Farrow & Ball colour chart for interior design ideas; or (c) crawling through dust and rubble in the dark void beneath the floorboards to plug holes in brickwork.
Correct.
It’s all part of our flood defence strategy. The house sellers have assured us – and we have this in writing from a solicitor – that the property has never flooded in their 29 years of living here. Nonetheless, it’s better to be safe than sorry, as Noah once said.
For the benefit of readers with limited biblical knowledge, here’s how Hollywood would have staged the opening scene of The Big Flood with Bogart playing the lead:
FADE IN:
EXT. DESERTED PLAIN – DAY
A harsh, sun-baked wasteland. The wind kicks up dust in the distance. NOAH, a weary man in his mid-40s, stands near a half-finished wooden ark. Sweat drips from his brow. GOD (wearing a dark suit and overcoat) approaches.
GOD
Noah. You’re the only one left who’s worth a damn.
NOAH
You got a funny way of showing it, pal. What’s this about a flood? The way I see it, we’ve got enough water around here already.
GOD
You’ve seen what people have become. Filthy sinners, the lot of them. It’s time for a clean slate.
NOAH
(looks up, squinting)
A clean slate, huh? Easy for you to say. I’m the one who has to build a boat big enough for a couple of elephants, some chickens, and a pair of anything else that moves.
GOD
You’ve got no choice. You’re in this now, whether you like it or not.
NOAH
(sarcastic, lighting a cigarette)
Yeah, I figured that much. What’s next – a dove with a message? What’s your angle?
GOD
The rain’s coming. Forty days and forty nights. You’ll be up to your neck in it. Finish the ark and get those animals on board. There’ll be plenty time for drowning your sorrows when you’re afloat.
NOAH
Forty days… That’s a hell of a long time to be stuck on a cruise with a bunch of animals.
GOD
Don’t take it personally. And when it’s over, the world will be a better place.
NOAH
Better? Yeah, sure. By the time the flood’s subsided, I’ll be knee-deep in giraffe crap.
GOD
(smiles faintly)
It’s up to you now.
CUT TO:
EXT. THE ARK – DAY
Noah stares into the sky, a discarded cigarette smouldering at his feet, as the first raindrops begin to fall.
FADE OUT
(If this movie ever gets made, a Script Coordinator credit should go to ChatGPT)
Anyway, now that humanity is being remade in Trump and/or Musk’s image, it’s reasonable to assume that God will seek to cleanse the world once again. If so, I aim to be ready.
The thing about sub-floor voids – and I’m sure you’re aware of this – is that they are ventilated at frequent intervals by airbricks. A single airbrick can let in 50,000 litres of water per hour. And we have sixteen of those, most of which are double height. Enough flow to fill a municipal swimming pool in twenty minutes.
So yes, I’d quite like to bung up those holes as Storm Zebedee approaches.
You can buy a SMART AirBrick® that automatically seals with water pressure. But at £80 a pop, that would cost £2400 before labour. For half that I could build an ark big enough to hold Marian, me and two each of the animals that really matter (cats, squirrels, pandas).
No, this problem was begging for a DIY solution. All I had to do was position a made-to-measure acrylic plate, backed with closed-cell foam, over each airbrick and hold it loosely in place with four bolts. Whenever a biblical flood was forecast, I could bob outside and tighten up the wing nuts. Simple.
It never is though, is it?
I was prepared to get under the floorboards so I could poke bolts through the airbricks from the sub-floor crawl space. What I hadn’t anticipated was the size of the access hatch in the study.
The original underground explorer had kindly numbered the slats from 1 to 4. After removing a carpet tile, I could see only slats 3 and 4. The other two lay beneath a shelving system stacked with several hundredweight of stationery, legal documents and heavy ornaments.
There’s a saying among potholers that if you can get your head through a gap, the rest of the body will surely follow. But damn – as women giving birth will agree – it can be tight.
Though I have broad shoulders – all that rock climbing and posing in front of mirrors – I also have, I’m often reminded, a big head. I lifted slats 3 and 4 and shoved my head down the hole to check. It fitted. Just.
I pulled on overalls, settled a headtorch on my bobcap, then plunged into the dark unknown.
I’ve done a bit of caving, so I wasn’t alarmed by the dark, the narrow passageways or the cobwebs. It was nice and dry down there and, if I had my way, that’s how it would stay over the coming twenty years.
Of more concern was the shoddy brickwork beneath the damp proof course on the dividing wall between us and next door. There’d be no point floodproofing our side if our neighbour failed to do likewise. It would be like shoving a finger in a dyke to save Holland only to be inundated by a flood from Belgium.
As anyone who has done house restoration knows, the elegant facades of interior design hide all manner of tat. It’s even worse under floor level, with wires and pipes draped willy-nilly over heaps of building rubble. In some places, I could shove my fist through gaps in the brickwork to next door.
No option but to mix up a tray of cement and plug that dyke.
Earlier forays had left me with scuffed kneecaps. I couldn’t find the kneeling pads Marian used for gardening so sellotaped bubble wrap around my trousers instead. Think Michelin Man.
Pap! Pap! Pap! Pap! Pap! It was like the scene from Jarhead where army recruits crawl down a trench beneath a hail of bullets. Within eight feet I’d popped the lot. Fun while it lasted.
Several hours of trowel work had left me pretty exhausted. The temptation to skimp was immense. But then I thought of Noah. Did he spoil the ship for a ha'p'orth of tar? No, he did not. So I kept going. It was God’s work.
Then a more sinister thought crept in. I’ve spent four months on the (ahem) Rapid Access Chest Pain Clinic waiting list. What if I had a heart attack down here and the rains began? Who would get me out of that constricted hole as the waters rose? The front page of The Sun looms into view: ELON’S SUB SAVES PLUCKY PENSIONER WITH DICKY TICKER.
Postscript: Just been on eBay. There’s a 23ft wooden fishing boat going for £200. Needs work, but would be nice to have a back-up plan.
