Fat's Inconvenient

Fat clogging pipes in Newbury had to be removed last week

Thames Water worked in Bridge Street and Mansion House Street last Thursday to remove the blockage. A spokeswoman for the company said that the blockage was caused by fat in the pipe but it would be over dramatising the situation to say it was a fatberg.

(Newbury Weekly News, January 2019)

*

Brenda shook her head wearily as she hung up the phone.

‘Another one?’ enquired Andrew from across the desk.

‘I won’t say it, Andrew. I won’t. No matter how much they try and wear me down.’ She placed her head in her hands while he watched her, a look of concern on his pasty face.

‘You know I’d field some of the calls if I could, Brenda. But they don’t want to speak to me. I’m only the junior Fat Controller. As soon as they realise that, they want to be passed through to the senior Fat Controller.’

Picking up her mug and carrying it over to the kitchenette in the corner, she waved his words away.

‘I’m not blaming you, Andrew. It’s them! Journalists! Always looking for a headline. None of them pay any attention to the correct classification of fatty blockages.’ Gesturing to the dogeared poster stuck up on the fridge, she continued, in increasing exasperation. ‘At first I tried to explain it. I took them through the sizing specifications one by one. From here,’–pointing to the illustration of a what looked like a pallid broad bean in the bottom left hand corner of the poster –‘the Fatbean. Harmless on its own, but highly dangerous when swarming. On to the larger, and generally more spherical Fatsatsuma. A known pest in domestic settings.’ Her eyes narrowed as she directed her attention to the next illustration, an oblong lump about the size of a shoebox. ‘This next miscreant is so often overlooked but when it tilts and jams in the system, you’re looking at a whole heap of trouble. Never underestimate the Fatrabbit. Next up is the Fatpouffe–‘ she cut herself off. ‘Well. You know all this, Andrew. All I’m trying to point out is that there are forty-three more classifications before you get anywhere near…’

The phone rang. Brenda slammed her mug down on the worktop with such force that the handle came off in her hand. Striding across the room she grabbed the receiver and yelled,

‘For the love of god, it’s not a bloody Fatberg!’