Fourteen

I woke up suddenly at 4am, very warm and extremely damp. H opened one eye and asked if I was going through an early menopause, but no - the hot water pipe in the upstairs loo had sprung a leak.

We quickly called our plumber, Mr Pickles (whom my husband had successfully defended in court last year) and he arrived at half eight, smelling slightly of mildew, monkey wrench in one hand, and a copy of Vogue Magazine in the other. In between discussing this season's hemlines, he explained how he'd spent a month last year 'banged up' for illegally importing Chanel lingerie into Kazakhstan.

'I was caught wiv me pants down darlin' he said. 'Or more specifically, wiv 'em hidden inside me toolbox. If it 'adn't been for your 'usband, I'd 'ave been in 'ot water!'

'You're a plumber' I said, trying to lighten the atmosphere. 'Aren't you always in hot water?'

He ignored me. 'I'd 'ave been in the shit.'

'You're a plumber. Aren't you always in shit?'

He ignored that too.

'Me career would 'ave gone down the toilet.'

I opened my mouth, closed it again and decided to go back to bed.

Pickles was last seen reading Vogue's problem page aloud to the dog. I'm not sure if the pipe's fixed yet, but at least the dog knows what to do if she develops teenage acne.....

Calidum rubor, as nobody had better say in my hearing!