Drain Unblocking: Epsom

Dave jet-washed the line anyway—three thousand psi, hot water, the works. By noon, the restaurant’s drains ran clear as a mountain stream. He charged his standard rate, plus the environmental disposal fee for the felt and the rubber. He wrote “toy dinosaur” on the invoice as a joke, then crossed it out.

Scrape. Thunk. Pause.

“It’s coming up through the floor drain,” he said, his voice tight. “And the… other one. The staff toilet.”

Dave shook his head gently. “The dinosaur didn’t make it.”

Mr. Somchai stared at it. “That’s not ours. We don’t have… children’s things.”