I got back from the polls at just after 5 pm, and the far corner of the garage was soaked. Weirdly, the water was warm, which meant only one of one thing: the hot-water line to the laundry apparatus was leaking.
Stuff like this, ever since I moved into this place, has motivated me to keep specialists on retainer. The plumber arrived right at six, and he couldn’t believe his good luck: he didn’t have to cut into the wall, just unscrew it from the studs. (The garage was insulated in 1997; they hung plywood over it.) Then he couldn’t believe his bad luck when he got to see the shape of the water lines.
He muttered the occasional imprecation, and under the circumstances I don’t blame him. (Even an insulated garage still gets down to 40°F or so now and then; the record is 29°F, set on a day when it was -5°F outside.)
It took about two hours to button everything up; I wrote a largish check, pressed a Jackson on him so he could buy dinner, and life moved on at subsonic speeds.