And then, the release.
It began, as these things often do, not with a bang, but with a gurgle. A deep, bronchial sigh from the downstairs cloakroom toilet, as if the house itself had developed a chest infection. soil stack blocked
A sound like a giant clearing its throat. A whoosh of pressurized air, followed by a satisfying, chugging drain. The water in the kitchen sink swirled once, confused, and then vanished. The stench lifted, replaced by fresh air from the open back door. And then, the release
Standing there with a plunger, I felt less like a modern man and more like a medieval monk diagnosing a humoral imbalance. The blockage was a demon, a hairball of wipes labeled "flushable" but built like polyester, congealed grease, and the ghost of a child’s toy soldier. It was lodged somewhere in the dark vertical shaft, a clot in the house’s deep vein. A sound like a giant clearing its throat
Gary wiped his hands on a rag. "Fat, soap, and a small washcloth," he said, as if diagnosing a cold. "It happens."
I knew what it was. Every homeowner does. It was the soil stack. The vertical sentinel of PVC that runs from the rafters down to the sewer, the main artery of the house's gut. And it had clotted.