Dave
The Middle — 42→52, Sunderland
42 at the start. 52 at the end. Sunderland.
I’m a plumber. Was a plumber when Anderson got in, still a plumber now. Some things don’t change. What changed is everything around the plumbing.
In Year One I was self-employed, running a van around Wearside, quoting jobs, fitting boilers, unblocking drains. Earning decent money in a good week, nothing in a bad one. No pension, no sick pay, no holiday pay — the usual self-employed deal. Wife Karen was part-time at the school office. Two kids — our Tom was 12, Sophie was 8. We owned our house — well, the bank owned it, we paid the mortgage. Life was fine. Not brilliant. Fine.
Year One — the Transitco thing didn’t affect me directly because I drive a van. But Karen used to take the bus to work and she said it just started… working. Like, turning up when it said it would. She thought she was imagining it. She wasn’t.
The VAT cut helped on materials. Five percent off every boiler, every pipe, every fitting. Doesn’t sound much but when you’re buying £200 worth of copper every week, that’s a tenner back in my pocket. Over a year that’s five hundred quid. That’s a family holiday.
Year Two — I didn’t think much about the government in Year Two. I was busy. Work was good. The only thing I noticed was Sophie’s school. She was in Year 4 and the teacher stopped sending home SATs practice sheets. Karen asked at parents’ evening and Mrs. Barker said they were doing “the new curriculum” and Sophie would be learning through projects instead of tests. Karen was sceptical. I was sceptical. Sophie came home from school that week having built a working water filter out of sand and gravel and charcoal and explained to me — a plumber, a man who works with water for a living — how filtration works. She was nine. I shut up about the curriculum after that.
Year Three — the army lads showed up on our street. I’m not going to lie, I was worried at first. Soldiers on your road feels odd. But they weren’t soldiers in any way that mattered — they were engineers, and they were fixing the road that the council had patched eleven times in five years. I watched them work. They stripped it right back to the base, sorted the drainage underneath (which I could have told the council was the problem years ago — water gets under the surface, freezes, cracks the tarmac, pothole appears, council patches it, water gets under the patch, repeat forever). They relaid it properly. That was three years ago. Not a single pothole since. Professional job.
The second homes tax hit one of our neighbours — bloke called Richard who owned three buy-to-lets in the street. When the 250% council tax hit on his third property, he sold it. A young couple bought it. First-time buyers. They’ve got a baby now. Richard still isn’t speaking to me because I said “good” when he told me he was selling. I stand by it. Houses are for living in.
Year Four — I joined the free college welding course. Evenings, one night a week. I’m a plumber, I don’t need welding. I just always wanted to learn. There was a lad in the class, Jake, who’d come through the army programme — nice kid, bit quiet, built like he’d seen some things but come out the other side. We built a metal sculpture together for the final project. It looked like a drunk giraffe. I’ve still got it in the garden. Karen thinks it’s hideous. I think it’s the best thing I’ve ever made that isn’t a central heating system.
Year Five — Karen’s mum, Janet, went into a care home. Dementia, same as a lot of people’s mums. We agonised over it. The dashboard showed the care home data — staffing ratios, incidents, everything. We picked one in Whitburn that had the best numbers. When we visited, it matched. The staff were kind, the food was real, the rooms were clean. Janet settled in. The fee was published and itemised — we could see exactly what we were paying for. No surprises. No hidden charges. When Janet died two years later, the funeral cost £1,400. Dignified. Proper. The vicar said nice things. We didn’t go into debt.
Year Six — the Fair Work Act didn’t affect me directly as self-employed, but it affected Karen. The school office went to flexible working. She does compressed hours now — four days instead of five, same total hours. She has Fridays off. We go for walks. In twenty years of marriage we’ve never gone for a walk on a Friday. It’s the best thing the NRSA did for our marriage, and I know that sounds ridiculous compared to nuclear reactors and constitutional reform. But a Friday walk with your wife matters.
Year Seven — the Right to Repair Act was the big one for me professionally. I’m a plumber. I fix things for a living. The six-hour emergency response requirement means landlords actually call me now instead of telling the tenant to “put a bucket under it.” My workload went up 30% in the first year of the Act. Not because more things are breaking — because landlords are actually getting them fixed instead of ignoring them. I’m busier than I’ve ever been and every job is a legal requirement, so nobody haggles on price. The Act was designed to protect tenants. It also made every plumber, electrician, and roofer in the country busier and better paid. I don’t think that was an accident.
Year Eight — the insurance reform. My van insurance had been creeping up every year — £580, £620, £670, £710 — despite never claiming. Under the rolling no-claims system, I paid the difference: £40. After eight years of no claims. Forty quid. I rang Karen from the van and said “I think the government just saved me six hundred pounds.” She said “put it toward the holiday.” We went to Crete.
Year Ten — Tom’s 22 now. He went to free college, did electrical installation, and works for Utilico. He maintains the solar installations from the Save Power, Save Lives programme. He goes into people’s homes and checks the batteries are working, the panels are clean, the grid feed is connected. Last month he went to a house where the woman was on a home ventilator. She held his hand and said “this battery kept me alive in the power cut last January.” Tom came home and didn’t say anything for about an hour. Then he said “Dad, I think I’ve got the best job in the country.” He might be right.
Sophie’s 18. She’s the play-based generation — never sat a SAT, learned through projects and mud and curiosity. She got A-levels in Biology, Chemistry, and Environmental Science. She’s going to study marine biology at Newcastle. She wants to work on the tidal energy programme. She told me: “Dad, the sea is going to power the country and I’m going to help.” She’s not wrong. The tide comes in, the turbines turn, Sophie watches. Not a bad life.
I’m 52. I’m a plumber. I weld drunk giraffes on Tuesday evenings. I walk with my wife on Fridays. My van insurance costs forty quid. My son keeps people alive. My daughter’s going to power the country with the sea. The road outside my house hasn’t had a pothole in seven years.
I check the dashboard on Sundays. Karen checks it on Mondays. Between us, we’ve got the week covered.