At school, I did eight years of science, and I’m proud to say I didn’t take in a single word, even though I was always made to sit on the front bench. That was because I once, accidentally on purpose, set someone’s hair on fire. The guy had fuzzy, woolly hair, a bit like a sheep. I had a Bunsen burner; it was always going to happen. Yes, okay, I did wrong. But, I tell you, that boy went up a treat. For one brilliant moment, he had a halo. Anyway, we were studying something painfully boring to do with calculating pressure in a pipe. I knew I’d never need to do that. I’m posh. I knew I’d always be hiring a plumber.

Years later, I have hired one. You reap what you sow: he’s the most incompetent plumber in Britain. The first time he comes, he says: “The radiator is connected to the cold water.”

“Was that not your fault?” I ask. “Yeah,” he says. “Nightmare.” I know I should fire him at this point, but he looks as ashamed as a dog who’s peed on the doormat. I forgive him. I’m so starved of male company, I get quite crushy with workmen. I loom about, asking questions about screwdrivers.

The plumber doesn’t come the following week because his children have been snatched. Now I definitely don’t blame him for that, either. He is rubbish at his job, but he seems devoted to his kids. Fortunately, the snatcher lost confidence and put the children out of his car at the end of the street. Fortunately, the plumber has the same problem as me: he’s got someone who can’t finish the job.

A week later, the plumber comes again. The night before, he says, he was on a houseboat that, for no apparent reason, exploded.

Again, this is unfortunate. I feel sorry for the man, although I can’t actually bring myself to look him in the eye. He’s missing parts of his face. And I can’t help feeling that a man who makes places burst into flame should not be fitting my boiler.

A week after that, he returns. He now looks as if he’s got a very pink suntan. He’s leaning out of the bathroom window trying to cement up a hole he’d mistakenly drilled through the wall.

I realise something horrible: I have to take control. I fire the plumber and say I’ll do the cementing myself.

He’s okay about it. He says he’s been distracted. He says he wants to find the snatcher before the police do.

“Why?” I say.

“So I can kill him,” he replies.

“I don’t think that’s wise,” I say. “Why don’t you just call him up and offer to fix his boiler?”

And if that doesn’t get him, I’ll come round with a Bunsen burner.

dadrules.co.uk

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