Downpipe Blocked -

She tugged on her wellingtons, the rubber stiff from disuse, and marched outside. The downpipe, a slender, white PVC column running from the gutter to a cracked concrete splash block, looked innocent enough. But when she peered up at the gutter, she saw it: a dark, wet dam of decomposing leaves, moss, and a single, inexplicably shiny tennis ball.

The real trouble began when she decided to clear the blockage from the bottom. She crouched by the splash block, unscrewed the first joint of the pipe, and peered into the darkness. A single, fat woodlouse scuttled out. She pushed her phone camera into the gap and took a picture. downpipe blocked

It was the silence that finally drove her outside. She tugged on her wellingtons, the rubber stiff

Eleanor had inherited 17 Maple Drive from her Aunt Margaret, a woman who had treated her bungalow like a ship’s captain treats a vessel. Every tile, every gutter, every whisper of the drainpipes had been accounted for. Eleanor, a graphic designer who preferred the clean logic of a screen to the messy physics of the real world, had let things slide. The autumn had been a spectacular riot of colour, and the giant sycamore tree in the front yard had surrendered every single one of its copper-coloured leaves directly onto the roof. The real trouble began when she decided to

Eleanor closed the book. Her kitchen was silent. The kettle was off. The fridge wasn’t humming. Then she heard it—a single, soft drip from the sink. She hadn't turned on the tap. She walked over. The faucet was dry. The drip came again. And then, from the plughole, a tiny, perfectly formed leaf, copper-brown and sodden, unfurled itself like a tongue and lay glistening on the stainless steel.