I reassess my life.

On the whole, this is an exercise that should generally be avoided, like buying ‘Jethro’ tapes at the motorway services or sneaking away from the guided tour of the petrochemical works, spotting a small hole in the housing of the liquid butane boiling refiner and thinking: “that is an interesting hole. I wonder what would happen if I put my penis in it?” It generally doesn’t lead to anything particularly constructive, although I suppose there is sometimes an exception, and butane is often quite nicely tingly. I walk into the kitchen and put the kettle on.

I arrived at the Cottage with the – honest, honest – intention of tapping in to the peace and serenity of the place to give myself a working environment in which I could do Magnificent Things. Actually, I stared at the screen a lot and watched the rabbits in the garden. The plan was also for the LTLP to arrive home from work to find braised guinea fowl with celeriac mash (or suchlike) simmering invitingly on the hob. As it was, notes such as “in Village Pub – reheat manky stuff in back of fridge” became more frequent, as did the closing-time necessity for her to remove Short Tony from the roof with a long pole.

Then we decamped to Narcoleptic Dave’s place whilst the Methodical Builder used the Cottage to practice his NVQ Building (Level 1). I am led to believe that this work is almost finished. He has removed my family heirloom table from its bedroom tomb. Along with the bedroom door and some of the frame. Today I need to argue about some electrical things.

I make the tea. As the scum rises to the surface, I search for an image of the Prophet Mohammed in the mug. Boooooo – there is no image of the Prophet Mohammed. I will not be an Ebay multimillionaire today. I just have scummy tea.

The LTLP returns to work today. She has been home on maternity leave for six months, and we haven’t killed each other, which I think is a good achievement (especially after what happened to the other ones). But for all my Magnificent Thing plans, my good culinary intentions and my general wish for peace and serenity and all that, what has been the outcome?

I am about to become a man who stays at home looking after a baby.

She does some final makeuppy things whilst I have my morning poo. I am just finishing my wipe when she comes in to kiss me goodbye.

“Don’t forget to feed her,” she says. She is joking.

“I won’t,” I say. I am joking.

“I’ll see you later then,” she says.

I hear the front door close and she is gone. In the lounge, the baby sits in her bouncy chair, her face bearing a look of the utmost alarm.

More heat!!!

Broiling me with the feverishness of its hellish warmth!!!

The curtains hang perfectly still (due to the fact that there is no wind (making it hotter)). I watch them like a viewer of BBC3’s ‘Two Pints of Lager and a Packet of Crisps’, desperately seeking any sign of life.

Beside me performs Jumbo’s Amazing Animal Band.

The neighbours’ car alarm goes off. Woooeeeeeooooeeeeooooeeeoooeeee!!! (I hope I’ve spelt that right). They have one of those car alarms that sounds periodically to reassure the owner that the vehicle hasn’t been stolen. Thirty seconds later it cuts back into silence, as going on for any longer would cause a disturbance.

I take a sip of water. For the 234724th time I discover that this doesn’t provide the cool tidal wave of zinging refreshment that I anticipate. Instead the heat seems to become even more heaty as my head returns to the pillow.

Next door’s dog starts barking.

I listen to this for some time, before deciding to throw some poisoned meat out of the window for it. I try to remember what I have available. There is nothing in the fridge. There is a large rib roast in the freezer, which would seem a bit of a waste on poisoning an annoying dog. Plus it would take ages to defrost in the microwave. If I was really accurate, I could throw it whilst still frozen, stun the dog, then retrieve the meat and return it to the freezer.

This seems to be a bit of a long shot.

Brahms’s lullaby starts playing from the other room. Baby Servalan has a musical carrot that plays Brahms’s lullaby when you pull the green bit. I am not sure that this was what Brahms had in mind when he wrote it.

I lie, sticky, sweaty and stupefied, listening to the distant sound of a musical carrot.

I do not drift off to sleep.