I was woken from a fretful slumber around midnight. There was a sound like heavy rain, but there was no accompanying drilling noise from the tin roof. I clamoured out of bed and made my way in the dark towards the sitting room. I don’t know what dream I had awakened from, but for an instant I didn’t find it odd to be wading through what seemed to be a small river, as I wended my passage into the kitchen and discovered a sea of rising water, fed by a fierce cascade emanating from beneath the kitchen sink. Peering inside, I saw a pipe had burst.

I bleated out a distress signal and then hared off down the path to switch the water off at the mains. Having done that, we decided we would leave the mess until the morning, and return to bed. I was sweating fiercely from my short run, and went into the bathroom to have a shower. Of course, there was no water! I sluiced myself down with a bottle; but one of the peculiarities of this climate is that even the most innocuous activity can generate a head of perspiration and nervous energy that take an age to die down; and I found myself wide awake, hours later, nestling in a damp cocoon of bedding, listening to the steady drip of sweat as it ran off my forehead and nose, onto the pillow.

I discovered that Coco had changed the kitchen taps, replacing solid copper pipework with some flexible tube that was clearly made of substandard materials. It was what burst. The wrench Coco left behind was a lovely bit of kit, though!