1am. While sitting up late with my flatmate and my girlfriend, cackling at Seinfeld and talking of our collective experiences of humiliation over the years, I hear strange noises coming from the boiler. I silently steal into the kitchen, and turn a tap on to see if it's working. Oh! No water. Nothing. Off. On. Off. Nothing. I try the other one. On. Off. On, off. Hang on a sec. Are they on, or off? On? Off? I call for Jenny. “No, that one's full on.” She turns it off. I'm not convinced. I turn it back. “What about the other one?” Jenny has no idea. I turn them again, off, on, off. OK. I think they're off.

I go to bed. Predictably, about an hour into peaceful slumber, my Rapid Eye Movement is shattered by a loud noise from the kitchen. I stumble in, tripping over the bin, and find a solid jet of extremely hot water powering out of the tap, hitting a dirty bowl and arcing into a steadily growing puddle on the floor. I swear loudly, turn off the tap and decide to clean up the mess in the morning.