Saturday morning, Lynfield, Auckland. My sons Alex, 5, and Nick, 2, have just finished their Weet-bix and gulped down glasses of water. I've had coffee, brushed my teeth, and am rinsing a white plate under the kitchen tap but it's not coming clean. The water looks like chicken soup, again.
This is probably the fifth time it's happened in five years of living in this house. The first was when Alex was months old and I filled his baby bath with brackish water. I've lived most of my life in Auckland and never experienced anything like it.
But now I know the drill. I ring Watercare and report the problem. The woman on the phone confirms no faults or works have disturbed the pipes. "Go outside and runa tap, if it's still dirty after 10 minutes call us back."
I mumble that we should have a refund for doing that, but I don't get much of a response, or empathy. So I trudge outside in my dressing gown and blast water from the tap. Brown, brown, brown and 10 minutes later, still brown. I phone her back grumpily, thinking of my boys consuming this stuff. Logic tells me it's only rust, but who knows?
Somebody will be out soon to sort it out, she says.
