So, it gets worse. In the chaos that is Mexico, at times, yesterday I got up at 7:00 to let in the workmen, but they did not come. Instead at 8:00 a motley crew arrived at the door with one BIG truck, and lots of pipes. They asked me where the “alberca” was, as they were coming to drill a “pozo”. Now, the alberca is the new small pool that is under construction, and a pozo in my book is a well, and a well is for getting of water. Seems a “pozo” is also for the quitting of water and this is where the old water will go. My understanding of the geography here is that there are few natural rivers or lakes and all water is drawn from underground springs and catchment holes that fill in the rainy season. and they are all connected, so the flushing of dirty water into that system leaves me uneasy. Granted, tho the water always comes out of the tap looking clean, it does not smell of chlorine and some folk say “sure you can drink it”, but they sell them big bottles of 25l of water in the shops for a couple of quid and most people will be drinking that.

So they wheel in all manner of machine, apparatus and tool and a well dressed young guy with a clipboard comes along also and points at stuff, so something is about to happen. A long´pipe runs through the house to the back and the hook it all up and put on ear protection. This is my sign to wheel out my copy of “Drum & Bass Arena 10th Anniversary” and crank it up to ELEVEN.

 Eventually up turns a cop. The truck is blocking the street. I’m told that here the cops don’t ever do anything. He shakes my hand and is very nice and tells me I must stop the work. I tell him it’s not up to me, but I’ll speak to the people in charge. He shows me some city statute and murmurs about permits. everyone ignores the cop, and he goes away.

By lunch time they have finished, covered the house inside and out in limestone dust, and drilled 16 meters, or so they say, though there is no proof of this.

Work on the pool now continues, it’s back to tap tap tap, and the smell of torillas and beans at lunchtime, and the sound of that tinny old radio cranked up to eleven that all workmen seem to carry as an essential tool of the trade.

Don't you find your work as a dentist rather boring?