Well after a couple of years with a blocked toilet, I finally found myself with enough money to have the fosse emptied. This is an antiquated concrete hole behind the house, that drains out into the fields. After the dreaded phone call using my best french and trying to use the correct terminology, I was confronted by a lovely french man who spoke perfect English. Appointment arranged, it was time to clear a path for the tank to get round the back of the house. This was no mean feat, the pathway was an overgrown mess of bramble and ivy with various items blown in by the wind that were now wedged firmly in the tangled forest of the unknown. We hacked and raked and finally found a way through to the little concrete slab where the excrement lurked. We uncovered the back door by removing the duct taped insulation and spending half a day searching for the key then we sat back in the satisfaction that we were all set and ready for the Fosse man.
The day arrived and the biggest tanker you can imagine turned up on our court yard. A lovely man jumped out all enthusiastically and proffered a hand to shake. I was a bit reluctant knowing what sort of job he did but shook his hand anyway hoping that I might be his first appointment. Taking a look round the back of the house, following the little path we had uncovered, he announced that he would not be able to get his lorry through and could he put a long large pipe through a window. The only possible option was through my daughters bedroom and out through the now freely opening back door. Well the look of disgust and utter outrage that came from my daughters mouth at even the idea that a poo pipe would be dangling through her bedroom window and across her bed was beyond words. 'What if the connections burst open I do not want poo all over my bedroom thank you very much', this being the cleanest bits of her deluge of objections.
The Fosse man then said not to worry I shall go around the house. This meant 10 pieces of pipe linked together to reach the dreaded hole. After he had squeezed himself into an all in one green plastic suit tied the hood tightly around his head, slipped his feet into long green wellies and place thick plastic gloves on, that covered most of his arms, he was ready to start.
When the concrete slab was removed the aroma of raw sewage was so strong it made your eyes water. The pipe was reluctant to enter the thick unyielding mass with a thick crust, the now green man looked up at me with a big smile and said 'I think it is blocked'. In the words of my daughter I was tempted to say 'no shit Sherlock' but resisted and just smiled through running eyes and nose. After some breaking of the crust he eventually managed to insert the grey pipe and smiled at me as he said the suction will begin. It was at this point I began to wonder if I should have put my waterproof coat and wellies on, but instead I stood there with the wind whipping the smell directly at me while hoping the pipe stayed in the hole and didn't escape.
I heard the large tanker crank up a notch and the pipe wobbled and shook. Eventually the thick mass began to make it way slowly up the grey pipe and travelling along the 100 metre pipe to the body of the tank. This process took a long time and after much jetting with water and more sucking the hole became visible, a deep concrete well ready to accept another 5 years of waste.
I was and still am amazed by the happy smiley cheerful man who has such a terrible job to do everyday. The smell alone would render me useless but there he was happy and cheerful, climbing out of his green moon suit and accepting a coffee.
We are now left with a toilet that flushes and you can even hear wherever you do dropping into the cavernous hole behind the house. The massive plunger that was used on a daily basis is now redundant and all that remains is for me to scrape the welded poo rings that remain under it. The water level goes down and does not rise to the top and all is well on the funny farm.
