Casilda won't sign the log until she knows where the water goes

"Four centimetres again, Nieves. Eleven Mondays in a row." "And what's four centimetres?" "Twelve thousand five hundred litres. Twenty-five metres by twelve and a half by four centimetres. And I'm the one who signs the level log." "So sign it and go home." "I'm the first-shift lifeguard, not the first-shift idiot. If I sign that the pool is full when it isn't, the day somebody hits the bottom at the deep end my name is on it." "Nobody hits the bottom over four centimetres." "Nieves, you're the maintenance technician. Tell me where the water goes or I'll write it exactly like this: water missing, cause unknown." "Sunday nights I take it out with the hose from the basement." "What for?" "For the forty-two trees the council planted back in March. It hasn't rained for eighty-one days and the watering budget ran out in June. Either the water or the trees." "And why not put in a request?" "I did, on the third of July. They answered that the pool is a service and the trees are ornament." "Bring me the log." "Casilda, if you write that down they'll open a file on me." "I'm not going to write that water is missing. I'm going to write that the pool loses twelve thousand five hundred litres a week and that we need a technician here Monday at eight. Let them come, and let them see all forty-two trees from the window."