Ash went pale. Kev just sighed. “This is going to take all night.”
And it did. By midnight, Bridge Street was closed. Residents stood in their dressing gowns, cups of tea in hand, watching the Yorkshire Water crew wage war on the fatberg. The jetter pulsed. The vacuum sucked. The smell—a hellish bouquet of old chip fat, sewage, and industrial detergent—hung over Otley like a fog. yorkshire water blocked drain
The Yorkshire Water van arrived at 2:17 PM. Two men: Kev, the driver, who had a shaved head and a forensic approach to problems, and young Ash, who was on his first month out of training and still thought drains smelled of roses. Ash went pale
And every time the rain fell on Otley, and the drains gurgled just a little, Arthur would pat the letter and think: Not today, fatberg. Not today. By midnight, Bridge Street was closed
An hour later, sweating and swearing, he had achieved nothing except a wet kitchen floor and a profound hatred for whoever invented modern plumbing. The water from the sink, when he ran the tap, now came back up after a ten-second delay, brown and flecked with… something . He called the emergency line for Yorkshire Water.
Kev replaced the manhole cover and tested the kitchen sink at Arthur’s house. The water ran and vanished in three seconds. He looked at Arthur. “You’re clear.”