Drain Unblocking Epsom Site

Dave jet-washed the line anyway—three thousand psi, hot water, the works. By noon, the restaurant’s drains ran clear as a mountain stream. He charged his standard rate, plus the environmental disposal fee for the felt and the rubber. He wrote “toy dinosaur” on the invoice as a joke, then crossed it out.

It was solid. Not a simple wodge of wet wipes. Something structural. He pulled the rod back. On the end, tangled in black slime, was a child’s rubber duck. Cheerful. Yellow. And next to it, a small, matted clump of what looked like felt. drain unblocking epsom

“My grandson,” she said, before Dave could ask. “He visits on Sundays. He likes to flush things. Last week it was a spoon. I thought I’d caught him in time.” She looked at Dave’s bucket. “Oh dear. Not the dinosaur?” Dave jet-washed the line anyway—three thousand psi, hot

Dave nodded. He didn’t need to ask what “other” meant. In Epsom, with its Victorian clay pipes and post-war extensions, a blocked drain was rarely just water. It was a forensic puzzle. He wrote “toy dinosaur” on the invoice as

He fished it out with a claw tool. The toy crumbled slightly in the bucket, releasing a final, tragic puff of grey water.

Back in the van, he radioed his wife, who ran dispatch from their spare bedroom. “One more job before home?” she asked.