The rising water table is leaving its mark on us. Several marks in fact. On our basement floor. And salts on the walls. Pretty soon we'll have the Prince of Wales floating past in a dinghy. Hey: perhaps things aren't that bad after all? Nonetheless, erring on the safe side, I have summoned Rentokil. Who'll inspect the damage on our return from hols. If we ever get there that is, given the panics at Terminal 4. The upside of the latest horrors is fewer overseas medics. Having struggled to both understand and be understood by people in whose hands we place our lives, this is a comfort. Common language and cultural understanding are imperative in dealings with the sick, it seems to me. Standard English covering colloquialisms and confusing social nicities ("I'm very well, thank you, Doctor,") should be compulsory for all NHS staff irrespective of provenance. I suggest a three month induction course that includes nights dancing at Tiger Tiger while drinking marathon cocktails. I defy anyone to hate the decadent lifestyle after that:-) Talking of which, I make no apologies for my excellent raspberry martini at One Aldwych yesterday. It put me in mellow mood. Which was just as well as I returned home to find the eldest on the doorstep. She'd been deliberately locked out by the youngest. Who was in the den, playing music very loudly so she didn't have to hear the bell. It is in the den that we have the wet floor. I have asked Rentokil to deal with her when they exterminate all the other horribleness;-)