2015 has not got off to a good start. Not only am I single, unemployed and unable to fit into anything but dungarees due to a two week crash diet of red wine and molten cheese, I am also writing this post from my bed, wearing a cashmere house coat of my mothers that smells of fags and Chanel no. 19.

I am back in London and my boiler has exploded. There is a biblical flood downstairs and the entire flat smells of wet rug. I found about about this disaster from my neighbour, a man whom we refer to as bin laden due to his fixation on where we leave our rubbish bags. Needless to say he was not thrilled to see water spurting out of the building.

I had been to see my other housemate DJing the night before and was still in Sheen wearing a mesh, frontless swimming costume and hot pants. Waiting for the bus with elderly people and children was sobering. Especially when I realised that I had not washed my face and probably still smelt of whisky.

I returned to a bog. The boiler was still making guttural belches and our turquoise rug had dyed everything it touched bright blue. I thought about getting on a plane back to Scotland but resolved to crack open a bottle of red, get in the bath and call Pimlico plumbers.

I put my housemate to bed and waited to greet the plumber in tartan flannel with a red wine mouth worthy of a corsodyl advert. The plumber turned out to be a bit of a dish. I unfortunately remained a bit of a disgrace.

He was due to install our new boiler at 10am. He still hasn’t showed. Something tells me he’s trying very hard to delegate the job…