Yesterday was an expensive morning. My first act was to call a plumber, who arrived promptly and spent approximately 180 seconds under my kitchen sink correcting a nasty case of water hammer. Water hammer, for the uninitiated, is a loud bang that occurs every time you turn off a tap, as shockwaves pulse through your plumbing system. Apparently these shock waves “travel faster than the speed of sound and can exert very great instantaneous pressures.” And I didn't really want anything travelling faster than the speed of sound through my flat, except perhaps, in certain extreme circumstances, light. Anyway, I really must absorb some DIY knowledge. All he did was turn 2 taps on and off – but the question, I suppose, is “which taps??” I could easily have turned the wrong tap, and watched some cold water dribble onto the floor. And then mopped up the water, rinsed the mop, turned off the tap, and experienced an almighty bang from the water hammer, travelling faster than the speed of sound. I wrote him a cheque for 58 quid + VAT, which works out at an hourly rate of £1160 + VAT. Thank god he didn't have to open his toolbox. Still, a small price to pay for peace of mind.

I then spent £13.50 on getting Sky Sports switched on, in anticipation of England's second one-day mauling of Australia's cricket team. Not only did I settle down to watch it 4 hours early, giving me an unexpected eyeful of Irish Greyhound racing from Tralee, but our batsmen slumped miserably in the face of persistently accurate bowling, and left me slumped miserably in the face of slumped, miserable batsmen. Darren Gough was the only England player to provide light relief. Much has been made in the press of how the baby of the Australian squad, Shane Watson (24), spent a recent night on a team-mate's floor after complaining of ghosts in his hotel room. To be fair to Shane, previous residents have also been spooked by other-worldly presences in the Lumley Castle Hotel, but it's not the kind of thing that you want to get into the press the day before a game. After Shane had been batting for a few minutes, Darren Gough came up behind him with his arms raised in the air, going “WOOOOOO!!!!” Fast bowlers pretending to be ghosts, there, marvellous.

I don't know why the prospect of thousands people wading through mud at the Glastonbury Festival fills me with such unrestrained glee, but it does*. Clearly the people who will suffer most at the hands of the imminent downpour are those who have done nothing more than show a bit of enthusiasm for live music, whereas the people who should really be miserably sliding around in the slime are Coldplay, Basement Jaxx and Van Morrison. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than seeing Van The Man kick into a subdued and disinterested version of Moondance before landing heavily on his arse, and having to sing “a fantabulous night to make romance” while repeatedly attempting to get up, the world's cameras trained on his filthy trousers.

I have to write 800 words about cosmetic safaris, where the sagging of forehead or drooping of breast pack themselves off to Costa Rica, or Malaysia, or – god help them – Ukraine, to get the problem corrected at a knockdown price. If any readers have had a tummy tuck in Thailand or their arms reduced in Armenia, be sure to let me know. I need attributable quotes to pad the bastard out.

* rather, DID. Before I saw the nasty scenes of flooding and destruction.