It was Brussels that finally gave me concrete proof that the fabled Thomas Crapper, he of the water closet, had not only existed but prospered. Some of his artefacts were still in use, and they were still magnificently fit for purpose. I felt privileged, even just going for a pee.
Here in Antibes, bodily functions tend to be a matter of street culture. The eye, and particularly the nose, and even, occasionally and unfortunately, the sense of touch confirm this. Nevertheless, some enlightened souls decided that le water was a must. The only way to accommodate the latest sanitary thinking to the mean streets of Antibes was to build outwards, on balconies or 'encorbellements', a small room, and connect it via very visible pipework to the none too evacuatory sewage system.
Clearly whoever owned our house had had ambitions in the closet department. Our impasse has an imposing, if jerry-built overhang containing a throne and a cistern. But time takes its toll, even on jerry-building, and our shithouse was declared dangerous.
So down it had to come. After months of paperwork, inspections, false alarms, today the jack hammers, in perfect harmony with the old canticle "The day they tore the shithouse down", tore into throne, cistern, walls, etcetera. Our cabinet d'aisance is no more.
Aucun commentaire:
Enregistrer un commentaire