I smelt gas yesterday morning, then the gas man came. “I’m surprised you’re still alive,” he said. He was a cheery chap with a spanner.

The gas is off at the meter, now, so we yelp under cold showers and wear thick socks. I work with a blanket around my shoulders. “I’m cold,” I said this evening, and Olive said, “Put on a second sweater.” “I’m wearing two sweaters,” I said. He picked at my clothes with disdain. “This,” he said, pinching my fine-knit pink cardigan between his thumb and forefinger, “is a vest, and this,” he said, poking at the blue pullover, “is a T-shirt with long sleeves.” He slipped a sweater over my head. It came down to my knees. “It is made,” he said, and he was proud, “with hair from the ass of a llama.”

In other news, I have a headache and I wonder if I am being felled by carbon monoxide poisoning.