Last night my husband looked at me and said: “What the fuck am I doing eating raw mushrooms at 1am in the Jury’s Inn in Islington.” I said, “Darling, there’s only one decent response to this situation, let’s go to the bar.”

200 miles from home. Rail replacement service. Deposited in Paddington way later than planned. No keys to boat, no keys to Marina, no phone, therefore no numbers of friends with whom to stay or neighbours with spare keys.

Thank the Lord for credit cards, shitty hotels with all night bars, Star Trek - the Next Generation and amiable cabbies.