We have a septic tank in the garden.
I know we have, because I built it. In those days, there were no sewers or any of those so called modern conveniences, so you had two choices – a chemical toilet or a septic tank. I don’t like the stink off chemical toilets, so a septic tank was the order of the day.
I read somewhere recently on the Interweb that these tanks are supposed to be pumped out on a regular basis. I had a funny sort of idea that there was some kind of maintenance called for, and had idly decided that the thing to do is to wait until the tank stank. It doesn’t stink at the moment, though I don’t generally go sticking my nose down the vents, so I have decided to let sleeping turds lie.
I built that tank back in ‘65 or ‘66. It is the best part of forty five years old, but it has never been pumped, or cleaned out. There are poos in there that I dropped when I was a teenager. Maybe I should open it up as a museum?
If something does go wrong with it, then I have a little bit of a problem. Back in the days when it was built, there was easy access, but in the intervening forty five years, a load of trees have shot up, which means there is now no way for a lorry to get to it. I don’t know what they do in this situation? Do they take the lid off and empty it by hand, using buckets? Maybe they could dig a trench and let it empty itself into the river that flows past our place?
I confess, I haven’t really given it much thought up until now. It has lain there doing its business on my business and we have left each other alone. To pump, or not to pump. That is the question. Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to let the neighbours suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous stench or to take arms against a sea of shite.
I think I’ll leave it alone.
It’s too nice a day to worry about these things.