I am considering re-naming the House of Rats the “House of Unwashed Hamsters” as that is the smell that wafts up from the snug and pervades everything.

I opened my bedroom door this morning and nearly threw up.

Carpets, underlay, futon mattresses and tarps are draped out of windows and across the yard, propped up on a variety of items in an attempt to dry out the floodwater.


The boiler is still broken and I ponder the fact that I will happily swim in freezing seas, rivers, lakes and disused quarries but a cold shower makes me bellow with rage.

Turtle and I are escaping up North this weekend. His band, The Beggars, are playing a beer festival in a small Yorkshire village called Thorganby.

It’s going to be excellent and utterly raucous.

Not a hamster cage in sight.