Friday morning, and we *almost* have a sink...

Our plumber is a hoot. He's an older gentleman in his late 60s who is technically retired, but does odd jobs for friends, neighbors, friends of neighbors, etc. He's completely old-school - loves copper, sweats joints the old-fashioned way, grunts and groans as he's flopping about on the floor under the sink, and spouts his very strong opinions about the local government like a true townie ("this town is completely corrupt; those townsmen have their heads so far up their asses that they can see out between their lying teeth."). Best of all, he looks like a demented Santa Claus - longish white beard, prominent round belly that could easily hold a bowlful of jelly, and a scowl that would scare the burliest of men. He's a real character, and I love him; I think he's great. He's a little flaky sometimes - he has missed two appointments with us over the past year or so - but because he is extremely entertaining and also charges significantly less for superior work, it's always worth giving him a call. I lift my glass to you, Norman, for your awesome joie de vivre, and your fantastic 90˚ elbow turns.