Water, water everywhere, and not a drop to drink.
Infuriation to admiration - what a start to 2026
2026 has begun with a series of events evoking a variety of feelings. Let me tell you about the two extremes, ranging from infuriation to admiration.
Reasoning that it’s best to get the disappointing stuff out of the way first, my town in South East England has been subject to water shortages – intermittent supply and complete lack thereof for a couple of months now. The government sold off ten regional public water authorities to private bidders in 1989 – the first time a country’s water supply had been sold to the private sector. Since then, in our very British way, we have all complained that ‘prices keep going up’ – including our water bills – but little attention has been paid to them. Other costs rose much further and faster – energy, for example – nobody noticed the price of water. We turned on our taps and there it was. Some of us might even have sent a few pounds to charities working ‘to bring water to a village in Africa’, egged on by pictures of delighted villagers splashing beneath the output of a new village pump.
Last year was one of the UK’s wettest years on record. It prompted my occasional Substack wails about the influx of hordes of hungry slugs munching away at my garden. It was a source of bemusement, then, that South East Water should impose a ban on the use of hosepipes for our area. We were encouraged to save water by whatever means possible – their advice for toilets is memorable if a little graphic: ‘If it’s yellow, let it mellow; if it’s brown, flush it down’. This began in Spring, continued through summer and into one of the wettest autumns and winters we’ve ever had. My reaction, like everyone else’s, was to express mild puzzlement to fellow dog walkers. Peering from beneath rain-proof hoods, we’d say, “Good job we have a hosepipe ban, eh?” But then shake our heads and change the subject, as the evidence trickling down our necks was at odds with the regulatory ban. It made no sense.
Just before Christmas, many tens of thousands of households in my town were suddenly without any water. The archetypal Christmas Dinner was imperilled. How do you cater for Great Aunt Maisie and your brother’s horde of Under Sixes when there’s nothing in the taps? To everyone’s relief, some service was restored in time for the Big Day. Luckily, I don’t have an Aunt Maisie or siblings to produce small persons to run around, breaking ornaments and their new toys and terrifying the dog. As a result, my Christmas Day was a wonderful, uplifting, if calorific experience – and the post-lunch Stilton and port were still available to fortify us through His Majesty’s annual 3 o’clock homily to the nation.
While we made merry and celebrated, all was not well in the reservoirs, pumping and purifying stations of South East Water. That balmy and peaceful ‘tap water-positive’ end to December devolved into a shambolic January. A complete outage for thousands of houses in my town lasted four days. Emergency supplies of bottled water were laid on in public car parks and delivered to those unable to drive to collect an allowance of the precious stuff. Pressure from horrified local officials, including our Member of Parliament, led to monetary compensation being paid to householders. We now know that we are entitled, under Law, to compensation if there is no water for a period of twenty four hours.
In addition to joining the ranks of Grumpy Old Men, in my older age, I have become deeply suspicious of peoples’ motives. Following these compensation payments, I notice we are having low pressure water delivered between the hours of nine o’clock and four or five o’clock in the afternoon. Thus there are no dry periods of sufficient length to trigger more monetary compensation. But those of us needing to go to work cannot shower before we leave, nor ‘put on a wash’ when we come home. Water is supplied at times we cannot use it, so doubling my Infuriation Index.
I stayed home this morning to enjoy a glorious shower and shave. Let me tell you, it felt wonderful. This whole episode has taught me not to take such a luxury for granted.
I wonder, how would such a scenario unfold in America? We have seen swingeing cuts to the Federal agency tasked with leaping to the rescue of disaster-hit areas. We have witnessed the astonishing withdrawing of Federal aid dollars from states in which the majority voted for the losing political party. For example, the White House rescinded $20m for clean water in pesticide-contaminated rural California in July. Earlier, the President stopped new allocations from a programme that has been a top funding source for protecting people and property from disasters since 1989. The Hazard Mitigation and Grant Programme has been used to elevate or demolish flood-prone homes, install tornado-safe rooms and strengthen buildings in hurricane or earthquake zones.
America is throttling governmental assistance, not coming to the rescue of a miss-managed private company, as here. In the scenario we have in south east Britain, would we be expected to drill our own wells and purify the water at home? Our Water Regulator does not seem to have insisted upon regular investment to update infrastructure, so we are now seeing burst pipes and processing stations breaking down.
And now to the other end of the scale.
Those among you who have read Book 3 in my Al Sharika series ‘Saved by the Gris-Gris’ may recall my protagonist’s interaction with a couple of cross-dressing men in New Orleans – and how his male boss was taken in completely, thinking he was buying drinks for a female companion. Merriment ensued… But in the last couple of decades, I have had little contact with anyone who feels genuinely they were born in the wrong body version. I am delighted to report that a recent meeting put this right. I was scheduled to meet a small group of friends; I arrived early and saw what I thought to be a new-comer waiting for us. My opening salvo of welcome had to be reeled back in, since I suddenly realised that the face in front of me was familiar. Ok, a little softer around the edges, longer hair and some make-up, but – I knew the person as a young man. Instead of John*, this was now Joanne*.
Not having seen her for many months, it was great to re-establish contact. We were alone for some minutes before everyone else trickled in. Joanne told me about the reasons for her decision – and complained because the waiting time for gender-reassignment advice and treatment is ten years! How can a person make such a fundamental decision if their access to good quality advice and information is so restricted? I came away from the meeting with a profound regard for the internal anguish suffered by such folks, stuck in what they are quite sure is the wrong body. And I have admiration for somebody who adopts a new persona and way of life in their former environment – that is, with those who knew them under their previous incarnation. It would be much less hard if they moved elsewhere and only met new people. I do think that enacting this radical life change demonstrates both the depth of torment and a reserve of determination to overcome it which will serve Joanne well in future.
Slightly to my surprise, I find it admirable. Perhaps, therefore, I’m not yet a full member of the Grumpy Old Mens’ Club. And do still have some empathy left for the human condition.
*Not her real previous or current names
