Like Johnny Turk in the ballad, Waltzing Matilda, Vinny Fitzpatrick was ready; oh, he primed himself well. When the representative from Irish Water called, as they were about to, he was going to rain them with bullets and shower them with shell.

And in five minutes flat, they’d be all blown to hell, or at least blown away from Mount Prospect Avenue to pour misery on some other unfortunates.

Usually implacable, Vinny’s dander had risen as fast as the prices Irish Water were charging the ordinary Joe, and Josie, for the privilege of brushing their teeth, having a cup of tea, a hot flush and a cold shower.

The recommended annual payment for his family house in Clontarf – 20-year-old Emma was deemed to be a grown-up – was a staggering €380.

“For that, I could buy a season ticket at Goodison Park,” he thundered at Angie. “What’s the point in saying to the kids, ‘if it’s yellow, let it mellow; if it’s brown, flush it down’, if these faceless lousers are going to charge us through the nose for something that falls from the sky every other day.”

Vinny had first cried foul over the upheaval made on the pavement outside the house by the meter installation folk. Because of the design of underground sluices, Vinny’s gate was at the point of confluence for three meters; his own, and the houses on either side.

The job had taken two days to complete, during which a frustrated Angie couldn’t reverse her car out of the drive. No sooner had a note “apologising for any inconvenience caused” popped in the letter box, then the diggers were back as the original connection had been botched.

For Vinny, the combination of the rip-off pricing and meter cock-ups was the equivalent of Chinese water torture. It was time, he told Angie, to take a stand. “This has gone far enough. No más,” he bellowed.

He rang Irish Water on Friday afternoon and told them, quite calmly, that if a representative didn’t come to his house the following week and hear his grievance, he’d personally detonate every water meter in Clontarf.

“There are plenty of water courses nearby; the Santry River, the Naniken and the Wad, that we can tap into. We won’t go dry despite your best efforts to make us pay through the nose for a natural resource. Nor will we pay ourselves a bonus either,” he barked.

Against the odds, Irish Water had not only noted Mr Fitzpatrick’s complaint but said they would send someone out before noon on Monday.

Ahead of the summit, Vinny embarked on a war footing. There would be no offer of tea, no bikkies either, and if the Irish Water drone asked to use the facilities, Vinny would tell them “to tie a knot in it” or charge five cents for a flush.

At 11.47am, the doorbell pinged. Vinny marched briskly up the hall and yanked the door open. Standing inside the porch was an Irish Water envoy Vinny wasn’t quite prepared for.

“Ah, Mr Fitzpatrick. Pleased to meet you. I’m Tabitha Tregoning from Irish Water. May I come in?”

In silence, Vinny ushered in his visitor, but not before taking a sneaky peak out front, lest of one the lads from Foley’s were playing tricks on him.

“Straight through to the kitchen, er, Ms Tregoning. I was just about to put the kettle on,’ he said as casually as possible.

As his leggy caller, in her mid-30s, draped her coat on a chair in the kitchen, Vinny caught a scent of something fragrant. It wasn’t the first thing he’d noticed about Ms Tregoning. With her shock of flame hair and seductive green eyes, she was a looker too – akin to Maureen O’Hara in her prime.

Stuttered

“Esmeralda, I mean Tabitha,” stuttered Vinny. “Care for a cup of tea and a biscuit? A chocolate Kimberley perhaps?” he said a tad unctuously.

“Why not,” smiled Ms Tregoning, revealing a Colgate set of pearlers.

“So, Mr Fitzpatrick, or is it Vinny? Where is all this distress coming from? You don’t seem the angry sort,” said Tabitha, tapping Vinny lightly on the arm. Instantly, Vinny’s fire and brimstone melted. He became putty in the gaze of Tabitha Tregoning. He was, to catch a popular phrase, like a teddy bear.

He bumbled on for a bit about the hassle of water meters, and the prices which, he felt, were more Fortnum and Mason than Aldi. Nodding gravely at his visitor, he said he understood that everyone had a job to do, and how we all had to pull the right way, but that give and take was required.

At the moment, however, he was reluctant to sign up for any water charge. “I hope you can consider where I’m coming from,” he said.

Ms Tregoning held Vinny’s gaze in her deep, limpet-like eyes. Now and then, she broke away to make a note, licking the top of her felt pen in a manner Vinny felt was suggestive.

“I think I know what you mean, and also what you want,” said Ms Tregoning.

“We understand Irish Water isn’t getting it right all of the time, and there have been teething problems. But allow us to get up and running and then make a more reasoned judgment. “Too often, Vinny,” she said leaning forward, “people judge a book by its cover, and that’s not always a good thing, is it?”

Vinny harrumphed. “No, of course not.”

Ms Tregoning explained that she worked for a PR firm attached to Irish Water, whose role was to tap into the mood of the public and to report back to head office.

Complaints were acted on randomly and by chance Vinny was the 100th caller the previous Friday. She promised to report back within a week, if that was okay? Vinny assured her it was.

“Tell me, Vinny,” Tabitha asked as stood up to leave. “What’s your birth sign?”

Vinny blinked and thought for a second. “Aquarius,” he said. “I was born on December 31st.”

The emerald eyes of the Irish Water vixen widened. “Mine too. What a coincidence. You know what,” she said bending down to give Vinny a perfunctory peck on the cheek. “We water babes had better stick together.”

With that, Tabitha Tregoning swept out of Vinny’s home, if not quite his heart.