For Dave “Drainpipe” Davenport of Davenport Emergency Drainage, this was the Super Bowl.
His van, a rattling white transit held together by caffeine and sheer will, skidded to a halt on Victoria Road, Fenton. The customer, a frantic café owner named Mrs. Kapoor, was waving her arms like she was signalling a plane. emergency drainage stoke on trent
Dave didn’t smile. He just watched the water recede from the alley, leaving a trail of silt and a single, perfectly intact Victorian marble. He picked it up, wiped it on his trousers, and handed it to Mrs. Kapoor’s young son. “Lost property,” he said. Kapoor, was waving her arms like she was signalling a plane
“Dave! It’s coming up through the floor! Smells like a hundred years of bad decisions!” He picked it up, wiped it on his
He waded through the inch of water already pooling on her linoleum. The culprit wasn't a mystery. He lifted the manhole cover in the back alley with a grunt. A geyser of foul, brown water shot up, then subsided. Below, the problem gurgled malevolently.
The drain screamed. Water, mud, and ancient filth erupted. For ten minutes, it was a battle of man versus geology. Then, with a groan that seemed to come from the very earth beneath the city, the blockage gave way. The water level in the manhole began to drop, swirling into a vortex that sucked the filth away toward the Trent.