Episode 93 – The Crooked Tap and Other Tales of Bully’s DIY Horror Show…

You know, it’s funny what you notice when the noise dies down. I was standing in my kitchen earlier, looking at this crooked old tap, or faucet, for those of you not blessed to be Irish, and watching it drip, drip, drip like some kind of passive-aggressive reminder of the years gone by.

That tap has needed replacing for over three years. We even had a brand-new one sitting here, in its box, still shiny and untouched. But Bully, in all his infinite wisdom, refused to fix it. The same way he refused to fix the bedroom window he screwed shut instead. Because God forbid anyone else have fresh air or working plumbing in a house he saw as his inheritance-in-waiting.

And here’s the thing, he already knew what was in the will.
He knew the plans. Knew the promises made. Knew the lies he whispered and the games he played, probably justifying it to himself by muttering something about my father’s dementia. Convenient, isn’t it? How some people can weaponize an illness to serve their own crooked narrative.

Before my Mam died, there was a burst pipe in this kitchen. Bully ripped off boards to get to it, did some half-arsed, makeshift job, then left the boards off. Twelve years later, it was I who repaired them. Twelve years!

Because that’s how people like Bully operate. They patch what benefits them. Ignore what doesn’t. Screw things shut so no one else can touch them. Break what they can’t control. And leave the mess behind for someone else to live with, or better yet, to break under.

What was his thought process? I’ve turned it over in my head a thousand times. And I’ve come to realize it’s not deep. It’s not clever. It’s just small. Small-minded, small-hearted and small-souled. The kind of person who thinks if you let a place fall to ruin, it becomes easier to claim. Easier to erase the ones who lived in it with love. Easier to pretend no one else mattered.

But here’s the bit Bully never counted on. People like me don’t get erased.

I’ll stand in this house with its crooked tap and boarded-up memories and make it mine. One repair, one board, one fresh coat of paint at a time. Because every little fix is a quiet rebellion, a way of saying you didn’t win.

So let it drip, Bully.
I’ve got a wrench, a will of iron, and a memory like an elephant.
And unlike you, I finish what I start.