[alecE]

Well it was going to be a micro-rant, but turned into a mega-rant. So, what's the odd 10 to the power 12 between friends, or even between llounge llizards?

Act I, Scene I
I live on a boat.
There is a shower in the bathroom.
so that I can have a shower without transforming into a homunculus or keeping my knees round my ears, the shower tray is below the water line.
Therefore there is a pump, which very obligingly pumps water from the low level of the shower tray up and out into the big wide world via a through-hull fitting, above the water line.

Act I Scene II
My early morning ablutions being nearly over, I flick the switch which energises the pump. Despite lots of encouraging pumpy noises, the water level in the shower tray stubbornly stays at mid-ankle level.
Life is short, I need to go to work. I will leave this and re-examine it when I return. Maybe the good shower-pump fairy will visit in my absence and put all to right.

Act I Scene III
Evidently I do not belong to the class of "well-behaved boys and girls deserving of visitations from the shower-pump fairy". When I look again at the pump, the water stubbornly stays where it's not supposed to. A more scientific approach (that is, more scientific than saying "bugger!") is called for:
- outlet pipe from tray to reservoir clear? - check;
- pump clean and functioning correctly? - check (apart from removal of yucky bits of hair, soap and grime);
- pipe from pump to through-hull fitting clear? - check (eventually, after prolonged struggle with screw-clips in unlikely places);
- through-hull fitting clear? - nope.

Aha! Nothing that a bit of caustic soda can't fix then!

Act II Scene I
Pipe eventually removed from pump and lashed (quivering, the young, innocent pipe pleaded with the cruel overseer not to apply the lash again... Sorry, getting carried away there) to the basin and a goodly glollop of caustic poured down. and left for a day, or two, or three, or several, without the level going down or any other indication of the blockage clearing.

Act II Scene II
Whatever happens to the original pipe, I still need to be able to shower. That can still happen. It would be a bonus to be able to step in the shower *without* encountering the cold, soapy water from the previous days' showers. Zap! Pow! Kazam! A new pipe is fitted to the pump, and allowed to gracefully fall into the basin above. The waste water from the shower can now exit via the other through hull fitting.

Act III Scene I
(The next weekend)
This blockage is not responding to chemical treatment. Mechanical efforts aren't working either. I wonder why...
Oh joy! Here is the explanation. The flexible plastic waste pipe from the pump is clipped onto a steel pipe.
Which connects to a 90 degree male-female coupling (ooh I love talking dirty like this!);
The first male-female 90 degree coupling is then attached to a second male-female 90 degree coupling.
I've got a disgusting plumbing orgy in there!
The second m-f coupling finally attaches to the outside world via a simple pipe, screwed and welded to the hull.
(The Freudian symbolism gets even worse later on).
And of course, to make everything spiffingly easy, this orgy of coupling was initiated *before* the bulkhead 'twixt bathroom & kitchen was installed.
So it's impossible to get a spanner on the couplings.
So the outlet can only be disassembled by removing the bulkhead or cutting a bloody big hole in it.
(This is the nautical equivalent to removing or part demolishing the internal wall between kitchen & bathroom in order to get at a 1 inch length of 20mm dia. pipe).

Act III Scene II
Enter a Dremel multi-tool with disc-cutter, stage left.
Our hero, not having anything better to do is to be found flat on his back,
Contorted,
Into a space smaller than himself,
One arm at full stretch holding the inspection light,
The other arm manipulating the Dremel and amputating the pipe at the first coupling,
As sparks, and dried 20-year-old corrosion and crud trickle gently down and adorn his face,
And beard.

Does the pipe, when finally severed, hover gently in mid-air to be deftly secured and removed?
Like farking hell it does.
The pipe, being hot, immediately dives down and lodges inside the boiler suit next to the skin, ensuring there's enough sweat to make good contact.
Oh well, it's only a minor discomfort, and the scars won't be very visible.

Act III Scene III
A triumphant conclusion!
The trumpets sound!
A new coupling! (brass, female/female plus spigot, male, if you really must know)
A working pump!
A descending water level!
Joy, Celebration!!

But hark, what noise from yonder flue pipe sounds?

Act IV Scene I
I live on a boat (I'm thinking of calling it Déja vu)
To keep warm in winter there is a solid-fuel stove.
To avoid asphyxiation, a flue pipe takes the hot gases out of the stove, through the roof, into the chimney and adds my quota to the atmospheric CO2.
The flue pipe is cast iron.
The flue pipe is angled (this is important, pay attention, there will be a stiff test later) to emerge through the roof parallel to the cabin side.
Therefore a smaller diameter than standard pipe is used to go through the roof collar (at an angle)
The flue pipe is 4 inches in diameter, except at the bottom, where a snazzy bell-end to take it up to 5 inches diameter was welded on 20 years ago.
The 5 inch end fits the collar on the top of the stove perfectly.

The flue pipe has surrendered to old age, rust and corrosion and has split,
parallel to the longitudinal axis,
exposing the inside to the outside.

As eny fule kno, this is not a viable flue pipe; it is an ex flue pipe and must be replaced.

Act IV Scene II
Removal of old flue pipe - a doddle; ignore the clouds of rust and dollops of corroded soot.
Purchase of necessary bits - nothing that can't be done by throwing money, lots of it, at assorted chandlers.

(Discursive philosophical musings on history of flue pipes, standardisation of diameters, transition from cast iron to mild steel, effects of rust, decline in quality of fuel and many other observations by oldest living boat dweller in neighbourhood have been excised as an act of kindness)

There is only one teensy weensy micro cloud on the horizon:
A 4 inch pipe is mandatory unless I am going to drastically re-model the roof of my boat.
A 4 inch pipe will not fit the collar on the stove - there is a gap where I can graze cattle in the south pasture.
A reducing collar does the job OK, except that it won't accommodate the flue pipe at the required angle. (You did remember about the angle, didn't you? It's very important).

The micro cloud now blots out the sun.

So throw some more money at the friendly local welder and an angled 4.5 inch bit of pipe is welded to the end of my flue.
Now I've just got the odd bunny nibbling the grass in the greatly-reduced south pasture.
(The end from the old pipe can't be used - it's cast iron, it's old, it cracks when welded; so the fun and games with the Dremel + disc cutter to remove the old end were wasted).

Act IV Scene III
It's a dark and stormy night.
Actually, I'm lying. It's a hot and sunny day. so I'm labouring fitting a 1500 mm long steel pipe into a hole in the roof. Freud, thou shouldst be with me in this hour.
Next job: paint the pipe and stove with high-temperature matt black paint. The instructions say "Contains Xylene and Toluene. Avoid vapour inhalation."
Er, excuse me, but I shall be at somewhat less than arm's length when I paint this stuff on. And I shall avoid inhaling the vapour how?
Clearly this is the manufacturer's get-out to avoid being sued by my heirs when I die of Xylene poisoning. Actually, I quite like the smell anyway. So what the hell.
Some time later, with pipe fitted, fibre-glass rope stuffed everywhere that fibre-glass rope can be stuffed, sealant busily sealing, fire cement not busily curing, a gentle odour of Xylene (and probably Toluene as well) in the air, it is now time to ensure that the fire cement is cured (it's been really poorly).

I wonder how you do that?

Act IV Scene IV
The only way to cure fire cement is to heat it.
To around 300 degrees centigrade.
Local heating to this extent is not generally recommended for cast iron stoves.
Did I mention that it was a *very* I mean *exceptionally* hot & sunny day?
The sort of day where you think "I'd really like a nice warm fire right now - NOT"

Our hero is outside, contemplating two facts:
- removing his latex gloves (internal examinations undertaken for a fee) has revealed his hands to be like Mr. Toad's after too much laundry work - horribly crinkled;
- the desert scenes from 'Flight of the Phoenix' are as nothing to the heat exhaustion taking place as the stove gets into its stride and starts emitting heat, lots and lots and lots and lots and lots of heat.

So I'm really ready for the following dialogue:

Our hero's neighbour approaches (he has a boat called 'Geisha Girl'):
"My missus wants me to make a new tiller pin for our boat."
"She's found a beautiful brass figurine of a geisha girl."
"I just need to drill a hole along her longitudinal axis" (I hope he is referring to the figurine) "to take the steel pin OK."
"I saw you've got a multi-tool so I wondered if you could help us out here?..."

Exit stage left, pursued by a double entendre.

Epilogue.
The boat no longer resembles a fiery hell with tools untidily scattered. Beer has been quaffed. Penne con arabbiata is in the offing. There is more beer for the quaffing. The fire is OUT! The cement is cured!

FINIS