So there was an early knock at the side door this morning. I’d almost forgotten that I’d called Bob (our very accommodating plumber) the other day, hoping he could temporarily hook up our washing machine at its new location in the mudroom (the scene of yesterday’s bloodbath).

Although the space is far from finished, our former laundry area is newly clad in what realtors love to describe as ‘Gleaming Hardwood Floor’ – and since we may have a bit of bad mojo happening here right now, there’s no way I’m about to tempt fate.

The puzzled, tentative look on Bob’s face as he entered our home was soon relieved when we explained the reason for all the blood at the doorway. Personally, I wouldn’t have blamed Bob if he’d turned on his heels at that point and said, “You know, I’m still waiting for a part to come in; I just wanted to drop off this PVC pipe on my way to another job.” But Bob’s a real trooper. Bob is venturing into the ‘Scary Place’ to run plumbing.

The ‘Scary Place’ is our cellar’s crawlspace; and to enter, you have to step up onto a milk crate and heave your body through a hole in the wall that looks like it was created by the blast of a phaser beam. This is where we stash Xmas decorations and other detritus that we’ll probably never look at again, yet seem to hang on to anyway.
If you have the slightest aversion to spiders, or are even mildly claustrophobic, you will never go in there.

I’m convinced that Bob isn’t afraid of anything – not the monsters that apparently live under my house, spiders, or even the fact that the last person I snapped a photo of (James’ young apprentice) suffered horrible consequences less than 24 hours later.

Bob even asked if I wanted a gratuitous ‘Plumber’s Crack’ shot – but I declined, saying that the abundance of people with the wrong body type squeezing into low rise jeans these days has ruined the gag appeal of such photo ops forever.

I’ll bet Fearless Bob has seen some pretty scary shit in his time. Really.

So thanks, Bob, for dusting all those cobwebs out of the ‘Scary Place’ with your head. I’m glad it’s you – and not me for a change – who will be frantically picking bits of web and arachnids out of your hair until you find the closest shower.