Growing up along the pot-holed paths of south Georgetown, we were lucky to find water unpredictably trickling and sputtering from the shared standpipe in the yard. We would rush off to grab all available containers, anxiously await our turn and carefully fill every pail and pot with the essential, if amber-coloured liquid.
In the small upstairs flat, the kitchen sink was attached, as in the old style, outside the twin-timber solid slab Demerara window that hung hinged at the top and generously propped open with an attached stick allowing for the brisk breeze and a broad overview of the backyard.
For years, the setting sun would glint off the bruised brass tap which had long run dry, the tired, rasping gasps of hollow air eventually sputtering into permanent silence as the household’s misplaced hopes of high pressure died, with each enquiring twist. Having lost its ability to “sing” as we called the coughing sounds, the metal pipe corroded into a useless relic to be removed and never replaced.
