Nivito ES

Existen varios métodos para erradicar un desagüe del fregadero del área de cocina obstruido. Uno asociado con estos métodos suele ser el uso de algún tipo de serpiente de drenaje. Este dispositivo es en realidad una varilla de chapa que se puede insertar en el desagüe y mover. Sin embargo, no presione demasiado fuerte, ya que puede empujar el bloqueo más abajo en el vacío. Cuando haya terminado, saque la serpiente y vuelva a administrar el agua caliente a través del desagüe. Si aún no está seguro de la obstrucción en particular, pruebe con una nueva manguera de agua caliente.

La obstrucción de la línea de agua de drenaje del fregadero de la cocina normalmente es causada por partículas de alimentos y también otros desechos. Los objetos más grandes también pueden bloquear el desagüe. Los escombros se acumulan hasta que la comodidad se bloquea por completo. El problema podría afectar su vida diaria de varias maneras, desde su método, el canal del fregadero hasta el olor de la comida y el agua acumulada. Si ha estado experimentando tuberías de drenaje obstruidas, tome medidas ahora.

Llame a un técnico de plomería

Un drenaje más lento es definitivamente un indicador de que el triturador está obstruido, por lo que debe llamar a un plomero. Cuando note el desagüe lento, probablemente sea el triturador de basura. Si realmente no se está convirtiendo en absoluto, es probable que haya bloqueado a menudo el desagüe o que la unidad de eliminación de basura en particular deba reiniciarse. Si probó casi todas estas opciones y nada cambia, entonces probablemente tenga algún tipo de desagüe obstruido y tenga que llamar a algún tipo de plomero.

Hacer uso de un émbolo

Si todos los asociados con las estrategias anteriores fallan, puede probar algunos otros métodos, como usar un émbolo. El uso de un émbolo puede ayudarlo a aflojar los desechos que podrían haberse quedado atascados en el triturador. Los plomeros autorizados también pueden ofrecerle presupuestos gratuitos y salir a arreglar la tensión. Puede ser necesario comprar una herramienta específica para desatascar el desagüe. Es posible que necesite una herramienta de llave Allen para llegar al fondo del recipiente vacío o debajo del triturador.

Algún tipo de bicarbonato de sodio además de la mezcla de vinagre es una forma segura de destapar la tensión del fregadero obstruida. Esta mezcla sin duda desintegrará cualquier partícula de comida que pueda estar acumulada en la línea de eliminación y agua. La mezcla de vinagre e incluso bicarbonato de sodio también aflojará los sellos de las tuberías y lavará la tensión. Si esta técnica no funciona, puede intentar hervir agua potable. Comprenda lo que tiene una tetera, una olla eléctrica hará el secreto del éxito. Solo asegúrese absolutamente de usarlo con cuidado.

Limpiar normalmente el bloqueo

En general, destapar el desagüe del fregadero de la cocina tapado es más fácil de lo que muchas personas suponen. Simplemente tiene que gastar un poco de tiempo y esfuerzo para poder eliminar la congestión. Hay varias técnicas básicas además de herramientas que pueden eliminar la obstrucción y evitar la molestia de llamar a un ingeniero de plomería. Una vez que haya resuelto el problema por lo general, puede implementar algunos pasos preventivos y evitarlo en el futuro previsible. Terminará asombrado de lo fácil que es manejar un drenaje de fregaderos negro e incluso una obstrucción en el triturador de basura.

Limpie normalmente la trampa P

Para despejar un desagüe del fregadero con registro posterior, primero debe limpiar la trampa en P. Si el bloque está en la trampa P, puede quitarlo desatornillando los tornillos que sujetan el equipo de la trampa P. Luego, puede usar una serpiente vacía o una barrena para destapar la tubería de drenaje. Para obstrucciones persistentes, es posible que deba utilizar una serpiente de drenaje o un taladro de drenaje.

The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through the open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate perfume of the pink-flowering thorn.

From the corner of the divan of Persian saddle-bags on which he was lying, smoking, as was his custom, innumerable cigarettes, Lord Henry Wotton could just catch the gleam of the honey-sweet and honey-coloured blossoms of a laburnum, whose tremulous branches seemed hardly able to bear the burden of a beauty so flamelike as theirs; and now and then the fantastic shadows of birds in flight flitted across the long tussore-silk curtains that were stretched in front of the huge window, producing a kind of momentary Japanese effect, and making him think of those pallid, jade-faced painters of Tokyo who, through the medium of an art that is necessarily immobile, seek to convey the sense of swiftness and motion. The sullen murmur of the bees shouldering their way through the long unmown grass, or circling with monotonous insistence round the dusty gilt horns of the straggling woodbine, seemed to make the stillness more oppressive. The dim roar of London was like the bourdon note of a distant organ.

In the centre of the room, clamped to an upright easel, stood the full-length portrait of a young man of extraordinary personal beauty, and in front of it, some little distance away, was sitting the artist himself, Basil Hallward, whose sudden disappearance some years ago caused, at the time, such public excitement and gave rise to so many strange conjectures.

As the painter looked at the gracious and comely form he had so skilfully mirrored in his art, a smile of pleasure passed across his face, and seemed about to linger there. But he suddenly started up, and closing his eyes, placed his fingers upon the lids, as though he sought to imprison within his brain some curious dream from which he feared he might awake.

“It is your best work, Basil, the best thing you have ever done,” said Lord Henry languidly. “You must certainly send it next year to the Grosvenor. The Academy is too large and too vulgar. Whenever I have gone there, there have been either so many people that I have not been able to see the pictures, which was dreadful, or so many pictures that I have not been able to see the people, which was worse. The Grosvenor is really the only place.”

“I don’t think I shall send it anywhere,” he answered, tossing his head back in that odd way that used to make his friends laugh at him at Oxford. “No, I won’t send it anywhere.”

Lord Henry elevated his eyebrows and looked at him in amazement through the thin blue wreaths of smoke that curled up in such fanciful whorls from his heavy, opium-tainted cigarette. “Not send it anywhere? My dear fellow, why? Have you any reason? What odd chaps you painters are! You do anything in the world to gain a reputation. As soon as you have one, you seem to want to throw it away. It is silly of you, for there is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about. A portrait like this would set you far above all the young men in England, and make the old men quite jealous, if old men are ever capable of any emotion.”

“I know you will laugh at me,” he replied, “but I really can’t exhibit it. I have put too much of myself into it.”

Lord Henry stretched himself out on the divan and laughed.

“Yes, I knew you would; but it is quite true, all the same.”

“Too much of yourself in it! Upon my word, Basil, I didn’t know you were so vain; and I really can’t see any resemblance between you, with your rugged strong face and your coal-black hair, and this young Adonis, who looks as if he was made out of ivory and rose-leaves. Why, my dear Basil, he is a Narcissus, and you—well, of course you have an intellectual expression and all that. But beauty, real beauty, ends where an intellectual expression begins. Intellect is in itself a mode of exaggeration, and destroys the harmony of any face. The moment one sits down to think, one becomes all nose, or all forehead, or something horrid. Look at the successful men in any of the learned professions. How perfectly hideous they are! Except, of course, in the Church. But then in the Church they don’t think. A bishop keeps on saying at the age of eighty what he was told to say when he was a boy of eighteen, and as a natural consequence he always looks absolutely delightful. Your mysterious young friend, whose name you have never told me, but whose picture really fascinates me, never thinks. I feel quite sure of that. He is some brainless beautiful creature who should be always here in winter when we have no flowers to look at, and always here in summer when we want something to chill our intelligence. Don’t flatter yourself, Basil: you are not in the least like him.”

“You don’t understand me, Harry,” answered the artist. “Of course I am not like him. I know that perfectly well. Indeed, I should be sorry to look like him. You shrug your shoulders? I am telling you the truth. There is a fatality about all physical and intellectual distinction, the sort of fatality that seems to dog through history the faltering steps of kings. It is better not to be different from one’s fellows. The ugly and the stupid have the best of it in this world. They can sit at their ease and gape at the play. If they know nothing of victory, they are at least spared the knowledge of defeat. They live as we all should live—undisturbed, indifferent, and without disquiet. They neither bring ruin upon others, nor ever receive it from alien hands. Your rank and wealth, Harry; my brains, such as they are—my art, whatever it may be worth; Dorian Gray’s good looks—we shall all suffer for what the gods have given us, suffer terribly.”

“Dorian Gray? Is that his name?” asked Lord Henry, walking across the studio towards Basil Hallward.

“Yes, that is his name. I didn’t intend to tell it to you.”

“Oh, I can’t explain. When I like people immensely, I never tell their names to any one. It is like surrendering a part of them. I have grown to love secrecy. It seems to be the one thing that can make modern life mysterious or marvellous to us. The commonest thing is delightful if one only hides it. When I leave town now I never tell my people where I am going. If I did, I would lose all my pleasure. It is a silly habit, I dare say, but somehow it seems to bring a great deal of romance into one’s life. I suppose you think me awfully foolish about it?”

“Not at all,” answered Lord Henry, “not at all, my dear Basil. You seem to forget that I am married, and the one charm of marriage is that it makes a life of deception absolutely necessary for both parties. I never know where my wife is, and my wife never knows what I am doing. When we meet—we do meet occasionally, when we dine out together, or go down to the Duke’s—we tell each other the most absurd stories with the most serious faces. My wife is very good at it—much better, in fact, than I am. She never gets confused over her dates, and I always do. But when she does find me out, she makes no row at all. I sometimes wish she would; but she merely laughs at me.”

“I hate the way you talk about your married life, Harry,” said Basil Hallward, strolling towards the door that led into the garden. “I believe that you are really a very good husband, but that you are thoroughly ashamed of your own virtues. You are an extraordinary fellow. You never say a moral thing, and you never do a wrong thing. Your cynicism is simply a pose.”

“Being natural is simply a pose, and the most irritating pose I know,” cried Lord Henry, laughing; and the two young men went out into the garden together and ensconced themselves on a long bamboo seat that stood in the shade of a tall laurel bush. The sunlight slipped over the polished leaves. In the grass, white daisies were tremulous.

After a pause, Lord Henry pulled out his watch. “I am afraid I must be going, Basil,” he murmured, “and before I go, I insist on your answering a question I put to you some time ago.”

“What is that?” said the painter, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground.

“You know quite well.”

“I do not, Harry.”