For the second time this year we've had a burst pipe. This one was... spectacular. I posted the MacGyver clips and took the girls up for their bath. I noticed that the water pressure dropped as the bath filled, but thought nothing of it. Popped downstairs (thank God!) to get something, leaving David up there, and shrieked.
Water pouring out from under the dishwasher (which wasn't on at the time.) We're talking hot water gushing out all over the hardwood floor to a depth of an inch. Yelled for David to go to the basement and turn the water off (I know where the shutoff is but it's stiff) while I grabbed towels and started to drop them on the pool.
Forgot that it would all be pouring through the floor to the basement below.
And this time my books didn't escape. It was in the corner where most of them are and many, many are ruined.
I'm just... these are books I've had for 30 years. My children's books got hit the worst (and some Wodehouse...) and so many are irreplacable. Valuable, collectable some of them ; the Brent Dyers, the Fairlie Bruce, the Oxenhams... God, if I had the money, which I don't, I still couldn't replace some. They just aren't there to buy; ones I've picked up in charity shops, library sales; out of print and impossible to find. Some are first editions but I've never collected them because they were firsts; it's the words I care about and sadly, with some authors the only way to not get an abridged version is to buy the original hardcovers, like the Chalet Schools. I got the cheapest editions I could but even so.
We have rolled up the carpet and dumped the wettest bit in the garden and mopped the concrete floor the best we could and now we've collapsed.
The girls got themselves out of the bath, dried and in PJs and Eleanor was a huge help.
Lauren I wanted to smack. Sat lounging around as I frantically tried to move books out of the way, as it was still raining down water from the ceiling and as I tried to clear the millions of bits of junk off the carpet started to cry out. 'oh, mommy, you're throwing away my things' (broken crayons, ripped paper, misc. Polly Pocket). And then, as I bundled her into bed, wanted a story which she didn't get.
If I'd thought she was traumatised (E was, a little) I'd have been sympathetic, as she was all smiles I got my do not mess with me hat on and gave her a terse lecture about being a self-centred little madam.
And then I came here to post this because. Well. You all know why. It makes it real and it makes it feel better.
::stops being brave and reliable in a crisis and lets lip wobble::