After cleaning, purging, disconnecting and reconnecting a bunch of complex-looking wires, he downs a coffee, munches a biscuit and declares us OK to switch the heating on for another winter.
The scenario is always the same: he works, I make the coffee, he talks to me about cars.
But for some reason, this year is different. This year, he doesn't want to talk about cars. This year, despite the fact BB is home with me - gazing at the plumber and his array of tools with undisguised admiration - all the plumber wants to discuss is.... (how to put this politely?): extra-conjugal matters.
Entirely unprovoked, he launches into a frenetic monologue detailing his many - many - extra-conjugal adventures, and the ample opportunities that are the icing on the cake of his profession as a plumber.
While I nod and struggle to remain impassive (we're in my kitchen! We're discussing one man's sexual exploits in front of my 3-year old son!), he paints me a few pictures that may or may not be the truth... but seem to delight him all the same: women who answer the door naked except for a loosely tied bathrobe... bored housewives who grab him from behind while he kneels to bleed a radiator... The fantasies unfold before my eyes.
"Well, you know, I don't judge..." I offer unconvincingly (ten minutes earlier, we were comparing anecdotes about our respective children), whilst raising my eyebrows and nodding in the direction of BB. The point is: please curb the s*x talk in front of my kid. The message he appears to receive is: your stories are certainly making me hot under the collar.
So in confusion I take the last-resort option that is the privilege of every parent: I pretend BB needs me for something - quickly - and I leave the room.
I shuffle BB into the bathroom and force him to use the potty.
We linger as long as we can over the whole operation.
When we return to the kitchen, the randy plumber is packing up to leave, so it is with relief that I hand over the cheque and throw open the door.
"Well, see you next year!" I call brightly, thinking 'damn, we need to find a new plumber'.
"Sure, sure" he grins, toolbox in hand, "and you know - next year... maybe if you're alone..."
What? What?!
I can hardly believe the insinuation. Maybe I'm imagining it. Is he really suggesting some sleazy naked housewife scenario?
Crazy.
We close the door and I can sense BB is disappointed.
I'd promised him an exciting half hour watching a handyman at work (tools, noise, mess: a little boy's dream), and in the event, the plumber was just a boring man who talked a lot.
And to think... I actually answered the door with wet hair.
I shiver as I rush to fetch the hairdryer.
Photo of my hotel room in Rome. A plumber-free zone
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