“Duckworth’s Drains, Frank speaking. If it’s an emergency, I’ll be there. If it’s a hairball, call a barber.”
“Mr. Duckworth?” Mrs. Albright called from the stairs. “Is everything all right?” drain unblocking swindon
Frank sighed. He’d heard it all: false teeth, wedding rings, a lost iguana named Trevor. But singing drains? That was a new flavour of madness. Still, the woman—Mrs. Albright of Bath Road—offered triple rates. Frank grabbed his rodding kit, his high-pressure water jet, and a battered torch. He kissed his sleeping terrier, Barry, goodbye and stepped into the storm. “Duckworth’s Drains, Frank speaking
Frank’s professional outrage flared brighter than his fear. “You little blighters,” he hissed into the shaft. “That’s my livelihood you’re messing with.” Frank speaking. If it’s an emergency