Calamity seems to be following me wherever I go these days. I spent the weekend at my parents house, which was an unusually pleasant experience, with beautiful sunny weather, leisurely games of pitch and putt, and lakeside relaxation making for a most edifying, almost Proustian experience (although how often Proust played a round at his local par-3 is not something that history records).

However, the countryside idyll was soon shattered when, on returning from the pub on Saturday night, the boiler decided to spring a leak. This resulted in some very wet presses and some exasperated parents. Attempts to drain the boiler with a length of hose proved fruitless, so a stumble through a pitch-black field with a low-power torch ensued, allowing myself and my father, now clad in dressing gown, to turn off the water at the mains. The amateur plumbing continued well into the early hours of the morning, culminating in the fashioning of a temporary sealant from an old teacup and some blu-tack.

The following morning brought a water-free house, a rather wet corner of the kitchen and some lengthy debate about the reliability and honesty of local plumbers.