I was unable to wash or dress before having to leave house to take Rugrats to school and start own working day.

Thomas spent most of the pre-leaving the house part of the morning ensconced in bathroom, compiling a list of things he would ask me to do when he emerged (get plumber to fix dripping U-bend, put shirt he needed for meeting next day in wash with Rugrats gym kits, let in and pay window cleaner and look for cheaper car insurance).

So, forced to put sweater and jeans over pyjamas and go out unwashed, hoping no one would look too closely at state of hair, face, teeth, clothes.

On return, after leaving details of car, which needs to be insured for less on AA web site: "So they can find the best deal for me ... " like they do in the ads with the bickering couple, and putting Thomas's shirt with gym kits into washing machine, decided to take phone and Japanese novel, which was supposed to be reviewing into bath, so I could get to grips with characters with similar but slightly different names, while at same time getting to grips with dirty hair ...

After half an hour, in which I had begun to work out who was who and the plot, as it unfurled in chapter one, the phone rang and editor of Sunday paper, for whom I had just finished writing piece about politico fashion designer's stance on war, called to ask if I knew exactly where the Mauritian women's group, which had hand-embroiled the flowers for politico designer's Stop the War lapel badges, was based.

Throughout the conversation, there were some uncustomary silences at her end, during which I could tell she was trying to work out exactly what sort of echoey watery place I was in but was obviously too polite to ask if it was the bath.

"Where exactly ... ?" she began before I interrupted with " ... is Mauritius?

"It's in the middle of the ... and I'll find out exactly where the embroidery peaceniks are based and call you back."

Having dealt with her so successfully, I topped up the bath with hot water, and began on chapter two. Half an hour later I was completely familiar with all the characters and making inroads into chapter four, when the doorbell rang.

Deciding that, by the time I had got out of the bath and made myself decent enough to answer it, the ringer would have gone, I remained where I was and reflected that the bath was probably one of the best places to work as, apart from having to move foot occasionally to turn on hot tap and top up, there was almost nothing to distract me.

Doorbell ringer rang again but eventually gave up and I congratulated myself on novel place of work, knowing that had I been in former boot cupboard now office, I would, even if I had tried to ignore doorbell, eventually been forced to get up and answer it and would have spent the morning, in which I was supposed to be working, making coffee for friend Tim or discussing the near nigh end of the world with Jehovah's witnesses.

Midway though chapter four, the hot water ran out, forcing me out of bath, into towel and upstairs in search of clothes. I was staring blankly at cupboard, wondering why it was full but there was nothing to wear, when I sensed I was being watched.

Turning towelled head towards window, I was just in time to catch explanation for persistence of persistent doorbell ringer, who rang while I was busy in bath. Explanation came in form of sponge, held in hand of window cleaner sponging furiously at bedroom window, forcing me to reassess conviction that bath was excellent place in which to work ...