
The training is going well. Suspiciously well.
In Portugal, I discovered that true plumbing was not about having the biggest wrench, but knowing exactly how to use it without flooding the room. Under the strict supervision of the pipe masters, I studied pressure, rhythm, grip, lubrication, and the sacred art of not forcing a connection before it was ready.
At first, my technique was rusty. My confidence leaked. My posture was questionable. Several pipes judged me silently.
But day by day, I improved. I stopped panicking at tight openings. I learned to respect old plumbing. I mastered the delicate balance between enthusiasm and property damage. Soon, even the most stubborn valves began responding to my touch.
The masters were impressed. The pipes were nervous. The floor remained mostly dry.
I no longer train like a defeated man. I train like someone who has finally read the manual, stretched properly, and accepted that good plumbing requires patience, confidence, and occasionally a towel.
Now, with my overalls tighter, my wrench polished, and my personal pipe fully inspected, I am nearly ready to return.
The mysterious entity may have out-piped me once.
But this time, I am coming back with better technique, better stamina, and absolutely no shame in asking where the main valve is.