What is it with British plumbing? I’ve never lived anywhere in Blighty with good enough water pressure to provide a decent douche. Don’t you just loathe a limp spray? Norwich is no different. Okay, the house is 370 years but that’s no excuse in this day and age. I’m old too, but my own water works do a decent enough job. My little winkle sprinkles with much more umph. I’m feeling nostalgic for our fireman’s hose of a spray in Bodrum. It was strong enough to pin an unsuspecting nude to the tiles. Mind you, that was only when the water was actually on. For the dry shifts, we kept a bucket by the basin for a quick whore’s wipe. My one consolation is that, come the mould season, we won’t have viral spores breeding across the bathroom ceiling like a medieval plague.

Our wimpy water works also extended to the porcelain. The lacklustre flush was barely enough to deal with even the most modest log. Emergency assistance was delivered by engineer Maurice who parachuted in from the Smoke for the weekend. His talented hands fiddled with my ballcock and, hey presto, Niagara Falls. His labours were rewarded with a large glass of white, followed by several more (but that’s another story).

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