He stood there, dripping, tasting the flavour of 2019’s autumn. He had not cleared the pipe. He had simply taught it to spit.

Arthur bought Gladys a bottle of whisky. He cleaned his mother-in-law’s knitting needle. And he learned the true moral of the story: Don’t push the problem down. Clear it from the bottom. And if all else fails, find an old lady who knows where the real blockage is.

Arthur remembered a YouTube video. "Use a garden hose," the man with too many teeth had said. "Ram it up there." Arthur rammed. He turned the tap to full. For ten glorious seconds, nothing happened. Then the pipe shuddered, made a noise like a bear giving birth, and a geyser of black, leaf-infused water shot out of the top of the pipe, directly into his face.

The downpipe began to sing. A clean, clear glug-glug-glug .

She fetched a plunger. Not a toilet plunger—a heavy-duty drain plunger with a rubber cone. She sealed it over the bottom outlet of the downpipe. "Now go upstairs," she said, "and pour a bucket of hot water down the top."

Arthur put on his ear muffs and tapped the downpipe. It sounded solid. Too solid. He removed the top strainer (a rusted metal flower that hadn’t stopped a leaf since 1987). He peered inside. It was not a pipe anymore. It was a time capsule of decay: a sludge-smoothie of moss, roof grit, and one extremely suicidal tennis ball.