I like water. Most of the time.
Water - so elemental, so pure - has the power to unlock enormous potential. Note the humble Chia; when given its fill of the fluid, it grows like a weed (I'm sure it's a weed in someone's yard, somewhere). I am a much happier person when I, too, am fully hydrated like the Chia of Kidlet.
My kitchen walls, ceiling, and floor, however, are NOT aficionados of water in quantity. They are saturated to the point of dripping, thanks to the power of gravity and the ancient pipes connected to my upstairs neighbor's kitchen sink.
Meema is not amused.
Meema is not fond of water out of place.
Meema smells mold.
Oh, sing with me the lament of soggy lathe and plaster!
Of course, like all stories of this nature, the tragedy began on the Friday of a three-day holiday weekend. A weekend when the landlord was out of state with his family. He has since returned, made repair to the offending pipe, and is out of town again. My neighbor still has a barely functional kitchen sink, poor girl. Now we wait for one (?) or two (?!?) weeks for it all to dry out, then needs will be assessed and repairs begin.
The bright spot? Hey, at least I don't own the place. But Nana and Papa may have visitors this weekend...