There is a final, terrifying gurgle. The water level wobbles. For a second, nothing. Then—a miracle. A great, sucking, whoosh . The bowl empties. The blockage clears. The porcelain is white again.

What you mean is: The septic tank of despair has erupted. There is a turd the size of a marrow floating in three inches of grey water. I have used an entire bottle of Cillit Bang and my will to live.

Dave, a man who owns twelve identical grey fleeces and drives a Ford Transit, replies three hours later: “Have you tried a plunger?”

You press the button again. The water groans. A single piece of loo roll—the cheap, sandpaper-y stuff from Lidl that your flatmate insists is “basically the same as Andrex”—surfaces like a periscope. It is waving. Surrendering.