London - Summer in the city Part 3 : Getting things done

Almost everyone I know in London comes from somewhere else. We've stayed because we like something here- job, person, night-life, the big old messy place itself - better than we liked home. I love living here. Until something goes wrong with the boiler. Or the roof. Or the toilet.

My loo hasn't flushed properly for months. I've tried waggling the handle, prodding the ballcock, replacing the connector thingy. Finally I'm reduced to a back-up bucket arrangement and hoping for the best. Call a plumber you say? Are you mad? It was an alleged plumber who stripped the bath surface while ineptly positioning the cistern at its current level of uselessness. No more plumbers thanks. The problem is I don't know how to fix it. I don't know anyone who knows how to fix it. Or even anyone who knows anyone who knows how to fix it. Abandoning my home town, you see, unhooked me from a network of local trades-folk I could trust. I can't call the bricklayer my brother went to school with, the chippy my cousin worked with or my mate's boyfriend who's handy with a chainsaw. I'm reduced to crossing my fingers and dialling random strangers from Yellow Pages.

Maybe not all London tradesmen are hopeless. Perhaps it's just the ones I've tried. And my friends. They're equally scarred from tangling with the tiler who put their new towel rail out for the binmen, the carpenter who scarpered with cash meant for MDF, the plasterer who wouldn't use dust sheets when carpets absorb spills perfectly well.

So the toilet trauma remains. And the return of bright summer sun after a three-year absence only highlights the horrors - mouldering grout, sagging walls, dingy bath. My bathroom is a disgrace. Drastic action is needed. Clearly I have to move house.

Then a miracle occurs. My friend Linda utters something magical. “Dominik's working for himself now; he's starting a business with his friend Marcin.”

”Dominik?” I squeak, hardly daring to believe my ears. “Really?….would he?.…do you think?... he’s actually available..?” I trail off. Surely this is too simple. Dominik is the one builder we know. Completely marvellous. But we lost him three years ago when he went full-time with some big firm. “Call him,” she says. Suddenly I've slipped into a parallel universe of dreamlike new possibilities. Flushing privvy. A shiny bath. Hell, quote me for a whole new bathroom while you're at it.....

Colourfixie, as they call themselves, are not your average builders. They arrive as agreed. They listen patiently to my grandiose fantasies for England's tiniest bathroom without sucking their teeth and saying “be pricey, love.” I can afford their quote. They don't take ANY sugar in their coffee. They leave a slice of cake for me. They wash up and vacuum after themselves to a standard of cleanliness rarely matched by my own. They do everything excellently - tiling, plastering, plumbing, electricals - remaining perkier than anyone covered in dust at the end of a ten-hour day in 28-degree heat really should. I'm thrilled. Even my miniscule flat stacked high with taps and tile cutters can't twist my mellow. The bathroom looks brilliant. And that's not the only transformation. That omnipresent terror of having no-one to fix stuff is behind me forever. As long as I can ensure somehow - I reckon you've guessed they're Polish – these guys never leave London.

A friend sidles up at a party, surreptitious, jumpy as someone scoring class-A drugs. Do you think they'd do my kitchen? I smile as I hand over the number. I think it's going to be OK.

See also : Summer in the city part 1 : Parks
Summer in the city part 2 : Changing London

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