It's 8.15 on a grey and wet Welsh morning.
George is halfway through the hole he's made in the fence behind the bush.
I am hanging onto his tail. I am wearing slippers and bed-socks, and my shortie bright cerise dressing-gown. My hair, which needs washing, is sticking out punk-fashion.
Can my day get any better?
I'm standing in the shower - you don't have to picture that; I don't want to put you off your coffee - when I glance down and notice I'm paddling in an inch or so of water, water which is also lapping perilously close to the edge. That doesn't look right. Fortunately Superplumber is always on the job.
I leap out of the shower and pad my soggy way across to get my trusty plunger, which is never far from my side: after all a girl never knows when a good plunging migt be called for. And with a slurpy sucky plippy plopping, all is well again.
They say things come in threes but I don't believe that ...