A LONDON LIFE
7th April

"AH YES," said my wife, casually, having regaled me with the details of a day of novel-writing in cafés.

"And the washing machine is broken." Delivered so sweetly, so nonchalantly, and yet what an indictment of my manhood, what a challenge to my sense of self-worth! I did not even have to prod the device, full of grey, sodden clothes, to know that this was a problem more vexing than the Schleswig- Holstein question.

My father would know what to do.

He is of the generation who did woodwork and metalwork at school, which involved building things; we did "craft, design and technology" classes, which involved devising strategies for planning how to build things. He can install a dishwasher, rig up a table, rewire a utility room; I might be able to knock up a rudimentary marketing strategy. I am a walking metaphor for Britain's industrial decline — and had no bail-out at hand, for my parents are on holiday.

I ruled out calling my landlord, an excellent man, ever-ready with an extension lead and a plunger. Since his uncomplaining toil to remedy a certain blocked toilet, I have felt too shy to ask his assistance. As for a professional plumber — not a chance. Don't they know there's a credit crunch on? And so I opted for the best strategy I know: wait and see.

Perhaps, out of the suds and sludge, there would grow a solution? Day one, nothing moved. Day two, still no change. Day three, nothing to report. Day four, wifely pressure building. On day five, I cracked.

I opened the door and a torrent of soapy grey water flooded my feet. I found the instruction manual, which informed me that a blocked pump was the likely cause of our woes. There was nothing for it but to get on my hands and knees. I removed the front panel with a spoon, having no screwdriver, and set about opening the relevant bit.

"A little water might drip out," counselled the manual. A bloody great deluge, in fact.

As I began to mop up, steadying myself on both hands, I experienced a series of jolts. Mystifying! Then it occurred to me. This was a practical demonstration of the conductive properties of water in action.

I re-read the manual: "Always turn off and unplug the washing machine before draining." Having done this, averting certain death, I poked the spoon into the pump and dug out a long lost cufflink — the source of all our miseries! I plugged the machine back in and clicked on. It began to whirr. "Wow! Well done," said my wife.

Frankly I'm still on a high.

There's hope for our generation yet.