Fred Bear Rules!

Apparently - according to government statistics – more than three million people in Britain are drinking to 'dangerous levels'. Hmm, I'm surprised that the number is so low, considering the amount of people I see staggering around amidst strewn chip wrappers and vomited kebabs in just my small area of Nottingham's streets. I'm not usually one of these three million reprobates, you understand – although last night you could have been forgiven for thinking so. I went for just one drink at Escucha's 'Frankengrind' event, and this was only so that I could support my lovely friends Matthew and Charlotte who run Danse Macabre (click here for more info) and who were staging a Burlesque evening in aid of a breast cancer charity. The show was just too fabulous to leave after only one drink, and I consequently ended up joining the staggering masses as I made my way home many, many hours later.

The event was expertly compered by the outrageous Fred Bear who I'd last seen in 'Bearlesque' at the Pitti Patt Club and who teased and cajoled the audience with his flamboyantly camp badinage. It was all fantastic fun and a great deal of money was raised for charity as well. There were more G-strings and nipple tassels than you could shake a breasticle at, I can tell you. I love strip shows – especially ones wrapped in horror, like this one.

And of course, this is all a precursor to Friday's Danse Macabre spectacle where even I will be decked out in fancy dress and stepping out in my fishnets and stilettos. It promises to be a great evening to promote an exhibition that brings together artists from a "variety of disciplines whose work explores the darker aspects of the subconscious mind". I'm greatly looking forward to it, especially as it's to be followed by the 'Mayhem' festival at the Broadway. There'll be no need to change out of the fishnets and basque as we head off to a late-night maelström of decadence and fantasy in Broad Street.

I can't wait, and moreover - this kind of activity is the only way to confuse and defeat the Machine. We must all do everything we can in this respect, oh yes.

I'm In Love With Anne!

I've always admired Anne Reid as an actress – she appears to be able to bring warmth and humour to any role she plays – but I saw her in last night's BBC Four drama 'In Love With Barbara' in which the depth and strength of her talents were revealed in their true glory. She played the indefatigable and cranky Dame Barbara Cartland in this beautifully scripted docu-drama (written by Jacquetta May) about one of the twentieth century's most lampooned characters. Matt Lucas's portrayal of Dame Sally Markham in Little Britain was an amusing and clever send-up of the famous romantic novelist, and it might have been tempting for the writer and producers of this latest drama to adopt a similar vein. However, they chose instead to portray Dame Barbara with an intelligence and sympathy that was most unexpected. Yes, she was an inexorable snob who wore too much jewellery and make-up, but there was a much more complex and yes, stronger side to this woman too.

The device used was to run two inter-connected stories: one, featuring a few months in her life as the woman we all knew and recognized – the pink chiffon draped, pearl & diamond encrusted, flamboyant show-off from the 1970s; and then secondly, a younger Barbara – more vulnerable, more damaged, yet more resolute than we would otherwise have known. This younger Barbara was brilliantly acted by Sinead Matthews who (incidentally) bears a remarkable and uncanny resemblance to a younger Anne Reid, and who somehow managed to portray a woman who – although very different from the Barbara we know – was the woman whose steely resolve in the face of tragedy and despair formed the personality that emerged in the later years. Sinead Matthews was the caterpillar and chrysalis to Anne Reid's butterfly. Two amazing performances and a deeply clever script – well done to everyone.

If you missed it, and want to witness how this surprisingly intelligent production managed to rehabilitate a figure of general ridicule into a character of sympathy and understanding, then you can catch it again several times this week on BBC Four or watch it on BBC iPlayer at:
http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b00f7zg2

So, uplifted by this story of bravery and determination, I shall set about making my own day as exciting and rewarding as one of Dame Barbara's. Now, where is my string of pearls, and where is my pink chiffon outfit? More to the point, where is my secretary...?

"Her heaving bosom betrayed the passion she felt for the darkly handsome young Viscount..."

Pesky Mad Scientists

I have a suspicion that those pesky old boffins at CERN have switched the machine back on, without telling us. This week has seen some rather fractured events taking place and I sense that the normal flow of life has been zig-zagged by some haphazard phenomena. I won't go into details, but I've had an uncomfortable week and the new life that I was planning has been somewhat disrupted. I think I can blame the machine for that – after all, I am nothing if not skilful in my actions and thoughts, so it can't be my fault. I have been really busy this week - not least, putting a huge amount of effort into arranging the Studio's move to new premises (all unpaid, of course). However, it's all coming together nicely. I shall be relieved when it's all over though, because I can then hand over to the Studio's new coordinator whose responsibility it will be to deal with all ongoing administrative matters (paid, of course - not that I'm bitter).

It's a queer fact that in the very week when I've also made massive inroads into sorting out my own paperwork (and my previously chaotic life), they should turn the machine back on and thereby attempt to thwart my efforts. This has not been without its frustrations, I can tell you. I feel as if I've been walking through treacle and the whole sorry business has left me feeling drained and exhausted. I need a break really – a break from this paperwork and a break from the mad, dancing social flurry that is Hockley Life. I wish I could get out of town for a few days. As they say in Spanish, no necesito mas atestar en mi vida.

On another matter, I notice that the postcode with the fourth highest record of burglaries in the whole country is NG8. Hmm, I'm not quite sure which area of Nottingham this is (I live in NG1 – the postcode that is, not the gay nightclub), but I'm disappointed by this statistic. Come on you burglars – stop it! People have precious few possessions as it is, without you stealing them, and even though I've said that I'd like to escape for a few days, I still want Nottingham to be a nice place to live. Don't we all?

Fear Is The Key

The only person I've ever been frightened of (apart from the man who once chased me down Kensington High Street with a bag of mince) was my parachute instructor. I have always had a fear of heights – I often dream of being stranded on top of a crumbling, teetering needle of rock hundreds of feet above the ground – but I once thought that perhaps I could cure this fear by throwing myself out of a plane. So, many years ago I volunteered to undertake a parachute jump for charity. In those days, there was none of this 'tandem' stuff where you get strapped to a qualified person and where you have nothing to do but enjoy the ride and smile for the camera. No, in those days you were on your own – you had to leap from the plane and control your own descent.

It was a weekend affair - we spent the entire Saturday and half of Sunday practicing jumping off four feet high boxes so that we could get the landing right. I understand that today, the parachutes are sufficiently controllable to be able to land gently, on one's feet – but back then there was no method of slowing the pace and after drifting down from the sky, you hit the ground with a right wallop and a crash, I can tell you. The only way to absorb & diffuse the energy (and thereby avoid splintering every bone in your body) was to bend the knees smartish, and launch yourself into a roll on the ground; head over heels. This manoeuvre was what we had practised over and over again.

Anyway, eventually we were airborne and the tiny plane had climbed to the required 2,000 feet. It doesn't sound very high, does it? However, when you're crouched on the floor of a door-less Cessna, peering out as the colours from the fields drain away into a uniform muddy brown, and the airfield beneath you shrinks to something the size of a postage stamp, two thousand feet seems like an awfully long way to fall. It was at this point when I realized that my fear of heights had not been cured, and that here I was, teetering on the equivalent of the crumbling column of my dreams. One by one, my three fellow jumpees left the plane, screaming - and then it was my turn. I knew in my heart that it was impossible for me to jump, and I no longer cared about the money I wouldn't be raising for charity by not jumping (it was the National Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children and at that point I felt that people could be as cruel to children as they damned well liked, as long as it meant that I didn't have to die). The instructor ordered me to the edge, but all I could think of was an old Charlie Drake song from my childhood: "Please Mr Custer, I don't wanna go...."

And then I realized that I was more frightened of the instructor than I was of dying (his training had been vicious and cruel; army-style). I was terrified of him becoming angry at my failure, of him calling me a sissy, and of his disappointment – so, quietly resolved to the death I was about to face, I edged my legs out, and jumped. And it was beautiful. My parachute opened like a dream and as the noise from the plane's engines disappeared and was replaced by the whistling of the wind, I drifted down towards that ever-growing postage stamp in a state of perfect peace. I hit the ground with a perfectly-practised roll, gathered in the silk of my chute, and walked back to the control tower with a grin that was wider than a Cheshire cat's. Success - I had done it!

I still have a fear of heights though. The next thing I did was to abseil off a two hundred foot high water tower, and that scared me shitless too. Some things are meant to be.

It's A New Life!

There was absolute carnage on the river yesterday. We were entered into a special competition to win a trophy for the class of boat we sail – which is a Merlin Rocket. I was all geared up for what promised to be a very tough and physical day, but still looking forward to it because we have won this trophy for the past three years in a row, and I expected to win again. However, my crew mate had injured his shoulder at the last moment and although he would have been okay to sail in more benign conditions, yesterday's wind was threatening to gust up to 35 mph – too strong for a weak shoulder to handle. So, we opted to forego the racing and instead, volunteered to man the rescue boat. Boy, were we needed! People were capsizing everywhere – broken masts, shredded sails, snapped shrouds – we were darting about the river throwing tow lines and plucking people from the freezing waters all afternoon. It was all huge fun and I got nearly as much exercise as I would have done sailing the boat! However, it was very cold out there and like a fool, I was inappropriately dressed, so when I arrived home I needed a delicious home-made chicken curry and a good bottle of Rioja to warm me up. The perfect day!

And now I'm hoping for the perfect week (nay, I'm expecting it). It's Monday morning and there's work to be done. My diary is full for the whole week – meetings, inspections, social intercourses, Spanish lessons, piano lessons etc. It all has to be done and there's no getting away from it. But the other thing I need to be on the lookout for this week is the unexpected. It's the unexpected that makes the world such fun – and if we make our minds up, the unexpected can only be good. However, yesterday evening I was surprised by something I saw on television. I don't often watch TV but last night, curled up on the sofa after my curry and wine, I switched on Stephen Fry's documentary about his trip through America. He was visiting the oddest place I've ever seen – The Garden of Earthly Remains. It was an enclosed garden somewhere in Tennessee that has hundreds of rotting dead bodies simply strewn about it, wrapped in a series of anonymous black bin-liners. A most extraordinary place – the curator of which was a disarmingly charming young lady who luckily, confessed to having a poor sense of smell. She cheerfully explained why the sight of ants crawling over a cadaver's bare feet gives an indication as to how long the 'individual' (her word) has been dead. Fascinating.

It could only happen in the US of A.... but then, only in the USA would we see the likes of one of Bush's & McCain's old friends rooting for the opposition. Colin Powell's blistering attack on the Republican candidate (and that scary woman Palin he chose for his running mate), and his glowing endorsement of Obama, is just awesome. Go for it, Colin - you're fab!

Golden Brown

I've had a really really good week - and yet the surprising thing is that next week, it's only going to get better! After the excesses of last weekend (another 'lost' one I'm afraid), I decided to calm down and get on with some work. There are some people who live by the adage that whatever you put into life, you take out – and they're right, aren't they? So I've been putting loads in this week and consequently, taking loads out. I've managed to finish my year end accounts at last (fourth attempt) and have appointed some new accountants who are very, very nice people indeed. In fact, a rather strange thing happened when I went along to see them yesterday – I bumped into Gordon Brown, our esteemed Prime Minister. He was in Nottingham visiting the building where my new accountants are housed and as we were walking up the stairs, he was casually walking down, accompanied by a bodyguard. It was one of those random photocopier moments when both sides have to give way to each other, and he just smiled at us and said 'hello' then continued on his way. Whatever you may think of Gordon (and some people don't think very much) he's nevertheless a major player on the world stage and to meet him haphazardly on the stairs of a Nottingham office block was a rather surreal (and not unpleasant) experience.

Then last night I broke my week-long abstinence by going out to dinner to celebrate the birthday of my lovely friend Cat. The fact that I was twenty years older than the oldest other person there didn't seem to matter as we chatted and feasted away in one of Nottingham's better Italian restaurants. These talented young people design and write games for Sony Playstations and what they produce gets enjoyed by millions of youngsters across the globe from Beijing to Murmansk to Capetown to Rio de Janeiro. It was amazing to consider that I was sitting in a room with people whose work and output engages all these anonymous people sitting inside their millions of unknown homes, thumbs twitching. We had a lovely evening and ended it in the hidden caves of one of Nottingham's most well-known pubs (no, not Ye Olde Trip To Jerusalem) where I also bumped into another friend of mine, the iconic designer John Whittington – look out for his new design for the iPod box which you will be able to plant in your garden and get an apple tree (get the connection?).

On my way home I discovered my little stray cat scurrying along beneath the walls of the city. He came in for a saucer of milk and for a moment seemed content to sit still and purr indulgently. However, very soon he felt the tug of his wandering star and was off out of the catflap, disappearing into the night, leaving me to reflect on how lucky I am to have had such a good week. Watch this space for more good news coming my way. Yay - a result!

Just Whistle A Happy Tune!

Someone wrote on Facebook yesterday that instead of continually reporting about the economic meltdown, the Press ought to be writing about fields of kittens and bumble bees instead. An excellent suggestion - although some of you might remember that I wrote here some time ago about the demise of the bumble bee and how it heralds the end of the world. According to Einstein, if bees disappear from the world (and it would seem they might, if we're not careful), then mankind has two years left on the planet.

Notwithstanding that, I prefer to talk things up, rather than down - unlike those bloody doom-merchants at the BBC. I always switch on to the 'Today' programme on Radio 4 in the mornings, but I'm considering changing to the levity of Terry Wogan's programme instead. This morning's newsreader seemed almost to be revelling in the details of the latest developments (recession, unemployment figures etc.). It's as if the editorial bosses enjoy piling on the misery, day by day. We're only just taking our first, faltering steps into the sunlight following the sheer horror of the banking collapse last week, and we're just beginning to feel cautiously optimistic that the worse may be over, when wham! They hit us with more black portents. Don't they realize that by deliberately labouring these points they cause further nervousness within the markets, and very soon everything will start to topple once more? Do they know nothing about collective psychology?

I'm not advocating a total 'head in the sand' approach by any means, but for fuck's sake – can't they head up the news with something more positive and then slip in a bit of bad news at the end as a rider? I'm convinced that these news wallahs actually choose to broadcast these omens of catastrophe with malicious relish. I think that HM The Queen should quickly pass a law that forces the BBC to begin all news broadcasts with such items as: "A field of kittens has recently been discovered just outside Oxford..."

So, Tally Ho everybody! Don't listen to those harbingers of misfortune – they're just pathetic souls who probably spend their tea-breaks stabbing compasses into each other for entertainment. I can even report my own good news today – as I write, the plumbers are actually here, in my apartment, sorting out my leak. I shall soon be having my first shower in five weeks! Hurrah!

To Be A Pilgrim

This has been both a good week and a bad week. Good, because there have been lots of exciting developments in respect of 'The Building' – which is fast becoming a hot topic of interest within Nottingham's creative network and beyond – but bad because some of my own personal behaviour has been markedly unskilful. Unskilful conduct is one of the scourges of any effort towards achieving a Buddhist way of life (presuming, of course, that this is what I am trying to achieve). Some of my actions this week have been so reprehensible that it's hardly surprising that the karma is swiftly returning in the form of some hard slaps around the face. Details of these actions are not suitable for revealing in a family show such as this, so I won't elaborate – but suffice it to say, I only have my stupid self to blame. I have not been good.

Today is Sunday 12th October and the sun is shining in an eggshell-blue sky. I ought to have been up early and perhaps have sallied forth into the breeze of the morning and taken in some exercise. I ought to have cleaned my flat, or done my ironing, or written some words, or learned some Spanish – but instead, I have been moping around my apartment staring out of the streaked windows (which I ought to have cleaned), drinking milk. The reason for this languid state of affairs is because I drank too much alcohol yesterday. What started as a sensible cup of tea in Lee Rosy's, soon rolled into a hogshead of wine and a cask of beer in several of our local hostelries. We did at least manage to eat something in a Greek restaurant (the one which we didn't think existed), but apart from that the day was convincingly unwholesome.

Tomorrow is Monday 13th October. I shall call it 'Skilful Monday' and if I catch myself doing anything in the slightest that doesn't adhere to that premise, I shall ask someone to give me what the Spanish call a bofetada (as distinct from a palmada) which is a strong slap in the face. Form an orderly queue, please.

Farewell Jeremy!

Last night we said goodbye to another of Sarah's assistants. You may remember me telling you that just a short time after the unfortunate canal-swimming incident, Raoul left the company to become a lap-dancer in Barcelona. We're delighted to learn that he's doing very well for himself out there, and we wish him well. Now it is Jeremy's turn to leave us. Both boys (devastatingly handsome, as you know) were using assumed names and working 'undercover' as waiters in Edin's – now Jeremy has asked to leave the company so that he can pursue his career as a champion salsa dancer overseas. He leaves for Cuba in the morning, where we are certain that his fame will spread widely across the entire latin world. So last night in Edin's we celebrated Jeremy's departure with a party - complete with alcohol drinking, piano-playing and even an impromptu magic show. As a farewell gift, Sarah presented Jeremy wth a pair of beautiful snakeskin Cuban-heeled boots, their toes tipped with real diamonds and their heels covered in flashing silver. He was delighted. Good luck for the future Jeremy, we shall miss you.

As I write this, I learn that the tax-payers of this country are to inject a "mind-boggling amount of money" (John Humphries's words) into the banking system in an attempt to stem the haemorrhaging of the economy. It's impossible to predict where this will end – some economists are predicting a "total global meltdown". Hmm - this is a catchy phrase, but what does it mean? If the meltdown is truly total, then presumably when it's over, there'll be nothing left. And if there is nothing left, then where will it have gone? If all the money that is owed to the banks is gone, then anyone who owns money in the banks will lose that too. The banks will own the assets of their debtors, but as those assets will then be worthless, the banks will own nothing. Nobody will own anything; nobody will owe anything; nobody will be owed anything. This is a strange situation indeed. It would seem sensible, therefore, to allow this catastrophe to happen, and then to wipe the slate clean and start again (after all, the apes didn't hand down a banking system containing trillions & trillions of dollars to the human species – no, we must have started with a big fat zero at some point in our history, so why not let us do it again?). There, problem solved.

So we shouldn't worry about a global meltdown. If it does happen that we go down, then we all go down together, so what the hell, eh? We will have equality at last. Right, I must go and ring the Chancellor immediately - he's bound to be interested in my theory.

Pete & his Tong

The Hockley Hustle went well, I think (I've only just recovered). It's an all-day and all-evening festival of music and creative arts spread across thirteen of the best venues in Hockley (which is the small epicentre of creativity in Nottingham, and is where I live) and there were more than 120 different acts performing. There were some diverse performances – from bands like Mint Ive and Mourning Becomes Electra down at the Bunker's Hill; to Sam Kirk and his ukulele playing in Lee Rosy's; the Victorians had a set at Broadway,; You Slut! and Wasp Display were playing at The Social – the list just went on and on. It was all for charity too, so it was a great day out and all in a good cause. Unfortunately, I inadvertently consumed too much alcohol, which was a most unwise thing to do on a school night (it was Sunday), and some of the later performances were therefore missed and yesterday's 'Monday Morning Blues' were a deeper shade of aquamarine than usual.

However, one act that I didn't miss on Sunday was Pete Clark (Broadway Box Office) playing a most extraordinary instrument called a Tong Drum. I've never seen one before – it looks like a hastily put together wooden box with a few slats along the top. About the size of a large shoebox, it's absolutely nothing to look at – and before Pete began, nobody believed that anything impressive could possibly emerge from such a strange little contraption. Not so, for as soon as he started to stroke the slats with his soft-headed drumsticks, we were immediately mesmerized by the most amazing percussion sound I've ever heard. Pete has been hiding his Tong under a bushel and now that we've all seen it, and heard what it can do, he'll be in demand for everyone's gigs and parties for months to come. Well done, Pete.

And now, I have to get some work done. I've a list of tasks as long as my arm and none of them will tick themselves off without help, so I had better get cracking. In the midst of all this, I'm still battling with the continuing saga of my bathroom... but that's all become a bit of a bore now so I'll spare you the details.

Back soon.

Food & Wine

Last night I went out to dine at Nottingham's newest restaurant – '1877' which is on the site of the former iconic 'Ben Bowers' restaurant, for many years the long-standing bastion of Nottingham's chattering classes. The restaurant isn't actually open to the public yet – this was a private 'dry-run' for friends and family of the owners, Tony Baxter and Mark Osborne. Click here for more information.

We began with cocktails served by a trio of smartly-dressed handsome young men, each vying to be Nottingham's Tom Cruise, but all probably too polite and too charming to succeed. My Whisky Sour was meticulously prepared and was deliciously refreshing, but could have done with being a tad more 'sour' for my liking. Moving to our table we were presented with simple, crisply-laundered white linen tablecloths, sparkling non-fussy wine glasses, and reassuringly heavy cutlery. The food is described as 'modern European', and Tony & Mark have taken the sensible decision of keeping the menu relatively simple – there's nothing I hate more than being faced with a bewildering and over-cluttered list of confusing choices.

I started with seared Scottish scallops served with an anchovy & truffle dressing – cooked to perfection and some of the most succulent scallops I have ever eaten. An exciting mixture of tastes indeed. This was followed by a melt-in-the-mouth roast pave of beef served pink (exactly as I like it) and accompanied by another old favourite of mine – curly kale. My pudding was an unusual Stilton parfait stuffed with pickled walnuts and figs – scrummy!

I was extremely impressed and it was a fabulous evening. Our own party included a discernible judge indeed – Sarah's friend Ashley Walters, owner of Nottingham's 'World Service' restaurant (winner of the 'Best Overall Restaurant' award in four of the past five years – for more info click here). Ashley didn't divulge to me what his impressions were, but he seemed to be enjoying himself and later I saw him chatting warmly to Tony Baxter.

So, well done 1877! It's not going to be an easy task, launching a new venture in the current economic climate, but there'll always be a market for deliciously prepared food served in elegant and comfortable surroundings and this new venue offers just that – so watch out for it opening later this month. And take note you other Nottingham eating houses - customer loyalty needs careful nurturing, and with places as good as 1877 in town, you might easily lose it!

Good Intentions

Oh crumbs. They say that the road to hell is paved with good intention, and it certainly seemed so last night. I'd been to my Buddhism class and was determined to make an early night of it afterwards. I popped into Edin's for a quick pint before the bedlam hit Broad Street. I knew it was coming - the Nottingham Creative Business Awards ceremony had been taking place yesterday evening and I guessed that everyone would be returning from the event for the (now infamous) after-party at Broadway. My plan was to escape before it did. Sadly, after leaving Edin's, I was persuaded to have just one more waffer-thin drink in Broadway and I thought I had time to do this before the havoc descended (and before I was sucked into the usual vortex). Unfortunately, I mis-calculated the time of the arrival of the mob. My escape was blocked.

Before I could say: 'No, I'm going home', I was surrounded by the crème de la crème of Nottingham's creative talent and the Malay (as they say) had run amok. Susi from Eternal Spirits had won an award, so she required a celebratory drink; my old pal novelist Nicola Monaghan had won one too, so she was likewise in the spirit of the samba; Rachel & Al from Wellington Films had also won, so they were up for dancing on the tables too. What carnage then ensued; what absolute carnage. I felt a bit sorry for the unsuspecting Broadway staff who had expected a quiet (and early) night, only to be called upon to serve copious and ever-flowing alcoholic refreshments to an abandoned rabble of reprobates. If only I'd have slipped quietly home as planned, I wouldn't have such a sore head this morning. And Sarah Davenport, wearing shoes, looked like an absolute movie-star. Stunning!

However I have some good (if rather banal) news to report: Yesterday the plumbers confirmed that the human waste, ever-flowing into the Chinese restaurant below, is not mine (as I suspected). This is an encouraging development indeed, and means that the recalcitrant managing agents of this decrepit building will now have to sort the problem, with no expense to myself. Way-hey! At last, a result. And guess what? My meditation session at Buddhism actually worked!

Now, where is that whisky bottle...?

With The Lead Piping

As I might have told you, I haven't had a shower for three weeks. Apparently, the joint conduit for the shower, washbasin and toilet in my en-suite is leaking into the Chinese restaurant below (remind me not to eat there) and so three weeks ago I was asked not to use it until the problem had been fixed. Since then, the unbelievably inept managing agents for the building, and the hopelessly ineffectual agents for the apartment, have been fighting it out over whose responsibility it is. Neither side wants to pay, and so the work doesn't get done. Meanwhile, Yours Truly goes unwashed, and I'm absolutely bursting for a pee as well (no, of course this isn't true you fools – I have two bathrooms).

Anyway, I'm all excited because today, the plumber is coming to re-inspect the leak and I have some news for him. He assured me three weeks ago that my second bathroom was not causing a problem and that I could use it without worry (what me – worry?). However, Mr Chinese Restaurant Manager fellah has informed me that there is still a daily leak into his restaurant, complaining that he cannot seat diners at the table directly underneath. The mind boggles as to what the surrounding diners make of the strategically placed bucket into which there drips (one assumes) raw sewage. It gives a whole new meaning to Chop Suey. So, if bathroom number two really is blameless in this matter, the leakage must be coming (and this is my theory) from the apartment above me, whose gurgling waste I hear rushing past my en-suite walls daily. Ha! Now who's to blame, eh?

Anyway, I have no complaints about being visited again by the hunky young plumber and his equally cute young apprentice, as readers of my short story 'How To Get Hold Of A Plumber' will appreciate. In fact, once the problem is fixed, I might just have to break the pipe again. Excitement in one's life only ever comes if you call it, you know.

I'll keep you posted.