The turning of the tide.

If one of your guests casually mentions that when they flushed the loo bubbling sounds were emitted by the bath plug hole, ignore it at your peril. If history repeats itself, it could well be the precursor to a cumulative series of deeply unpleasant events which will end with you being £262 pounds closer to poverty when the "Rescue Rod" drain clearance service van finally drives off into the night.

For fear that you may be of a sensitive persuasion dear reader I will spare you the most gross images of the last four hours but it will be some time before I again look at my rose bed with unmitigated pleasure. It's geography is unhappily close to the dank pit where the most savage events occurred.

The rainfall being nothing short of torrential it seemed only courteous to invite the two hapless men into the kitchen whilst I rummaged for my credit card, but rarely have I felt such an unwelcoming host.

I felt a sudden surge of empathy with Elizabeth I who was apparently very attached to her flushing water closet and its ability to remove the odour of odure from her vicinity.

Despite the price of petrol, the exponential growth of health and safety directives, the weight of Sunday papers and the Stonehenge nature of Cherie Blair's teeth, I find that I am quite content to live in the 21st Century