Order

Odour, as complained of in my post Unseen Foe, has been replaced by order, after months of effort. The company responsible for sewerage has written a pleasant letter:

“As you are aware our Engineer [—] has visited the site and carried out investigations. Our conclusion is that this is a private issue. Our sewers have been checked and we do not believe the odour is coming from them. It may be worth while you carrying out your own investigations privately. I realise this may not be the response you were hoping for but I hope you understand the reasons for this.”

In response, I’ve blocked up every crack I could find with duct tape, filler and cement, yielding a 99.5% success in stopping the smell seeping up through the floorboards. It’s also had the beneficent effect of protecting us from the aromas of next door’s cooking, not to mention its value in delivering rats from the temptation of gnawing through the floorboards to get into the kitchen. I was once woken at 2am by the sound of rodent teeth nearly completing a hole large enough to push through. A slug still manages nightly wanderings across the bathroom floor. Rather pointlessly I fling it out the back door (not with a callous heart, but you have to fling, otherwise it sticks slimily to your fingers). Note to self: don’t bother in future, for it knows its way back out and has always gone by morning.

To the reader who asks “What has this to do with me?” I say only this, that resumption of order may let me concentrate more on writing here. Nobody wants to live on top of an open drain. I’m satisfied that it can’t be corpses buried under the house by a serial killer. That theory would not account for the smell wafting up stronger at certain times of day.

I’m not like Fernando Pessoa, whose own disquiet fuels his writing, where it normally paralyses mine. He writes about headache, boredom, tiredness, even the bad smell coming from the river Tagus at low tide. This is from his Book of Disquiet:

It was sickening with the tang, with the cold torpor of the tepid sea. . . .
. . .
What wretched hopes are mine, born of a life I had been obliged to live! They are like this moment, this air, fogless fogs, shoddy threads of false storm. I want to scream, to rid myself of the landscape and of my thoughts. But my plan stinks of mud, it too, and the low tide in me caused to appear that blackish mire which is out there and which I only see because of its smell.