When I think of draining in London, I think of one particular choice comment made by a passerby: ”I’m glad I don’t have to do that for a job!” Little do you know, we do it for fun. I guess it takes a particular breed to enjoy being in a sewer – I never found it that difficult, and got used to the shitsicles hanging from the ceiling pretty quickly. The bubblebath icebergs get more attention, floating by as if oblivious to the filth below that carries them.
The discerning drainers first London hit, the former river Fleet now exists as one of central London’s largest sewers. What little fresh water there is remains only to pollute the mix of urine, detergents and faeces (plus a few tampons/condoms, wall-climbing ninja rats and the notorious fat reserves) that the Fleet comprises today. It also stands as my first Victorian sewer, having only hit modern systems previously (more on that later).
Planning in advance, I had an entry lined up 3 weeks prior to our first venture. If I was correct it would drop us into one of the largest sections of the fleet, and give us a mile or so walk to a good exit downstream. I headed out with my usual drain companions, hoping for their sake my research was solid. We weren’t disappointed!
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