mopping up

A week and a half ago, our kitchen succumbed to a watery grave. When my husband awoke and went to brew our morning tea, he found water bubbling up around the cabinet bases. "We have a problem," he called out. The problem had seeped to all four edges of the kitchen, and was threatening the hardwood floors beyond. My husband dove into the cupboards and turned off the water.
The fridge was hastily emptied into coolers and shifted onto the sun deck. The stove and dishwasher followed. And then, the pantry, oh the pantry. Winners of a timed shopping spree couldn't have bagged with more passion. The floor in an adjoining room was soon covered.
We fell upon the computer and desk, and bore it off disembodied and sadly, disconnected. Then up came the flooring, one layer, two layers, three layers, four. Wet, wet, wet, and wet. Fans and mopping filled the afternoon.
My father's birthday supper was transferred to a restaurant down the street.
That evening we went to clean our church. When we opened the front door, a roar as from a jet engine assailed our ears. Running towards the sound, I leapt down the stairs. Pausing only a moment to gain a bearing on the noise, I dashed into the ladies washroom. Water, water everywhere. "We have a problem," I called out. My husband dove under a toilet and turned off the water. We knew where to find the mop.