The plumber looks like he could be Grumpy Old Man's long-lost twin brother, which is disconcerting enough.
After a few minutes' "inspection", a trip upstairs and a long chat with GOM and FH, the plumber delivers his verdict.
He thinks the leak was probably caused by rainwater.
I am speechless.
I blab on - again - about the torrent of water I heard just hours before the wall got soaked, GOM's wife, the toilet, the bidet: the whole sordid tale.
The plumber just nods and strokes his mustache.
I point out that there have been heavy showers practically every day since May 1st, yet no more water has soaked through the ceiling.
FH just shrugs, in that irritatingly Gallic way, that suggests the whole issue is simply too big and complicated to contend with.
"So, what happens now?" I ask FH later (I couldn't bear to hang around for the end of the plumber's visit: I was afraid I might shake him in frustration or bang my head against the wall or something un-Gallic like that).
"Well, you know, the plumber will come back another day, do some tests... We'll see. It'll get sorted," says FH, still shrugging.
Do you ever get the feeling that the rest of the world is crazy? That you are perhaps the only sane one left?
Part of me whispers the unthinkable: I might be wrong.
But whenever I look up at the soggy wall, the other 95% of me still shouts: they're all crazy!
Photo taken 2 years ago. When I had normal hair.
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