The finger goes up and I stop in the middle of asking My Canadian Girlfriend to judge the quality of the toilets on Virgin Trains. I know she is a toilet snob, in that she requires it to be clean and the seats to be urine free, but I guess I must've hit a nerve.

And then I notice her phone next to her ear. The look on her face is not a happy look. I wonder if she's mid way through ringing Richard Branson to complain about the toilets...

"I've been broken into..." she says flushing my toilet theory down the drain. "The police must've rung when we didn't have a signal and they left an answer phone message. Apparently it happened at some point this evening. The caretaker's there now."

We are at least 90 minutes away from Manchester. This is the second longest 90 minutes of my life, after the European Cup Final. We begin to approach this in a logical and slightly detached manner. 90 minutes of not knowing what to expect means we can go through all of the emotions without even knowing what's happened.

"It's not like I even have much to take is it?" My Canadian Girlfriend says "My iPod is there, those diamond ear-rings are in that black box, I have no money in my bank account so if they find any money in the house then I didn't know about it..."

"And there's your Computer with all that legally acquired music on it, you have your best sunglasses with you don't you but what about the other ones? What about your Canadian ID?" It's about now when I want the focus of the worrying to turn on to me. After all, my workout bag is there with my Gym towel in it! And they better not have taken my work suit which was hanging up. It was a pain to find one that fit in the colour I wanted in the first place and even though it has a slight hole in the pocket, I have grown quite attached to it.

"My passport is on the dining table, I hope they haven't taken that - it's a pain to replace them. But let's hope they've taken the DVD player. It was only 9.99 from Argos so it'll give me an excuse to get a new one. Of course I could throw it out and get a new one anyway."

We walk into her apartment to find that it's not looking too bad. Most of the jewellery boxes have been emptied out on to the table and they have been through every handbag she owns, which is no mean feat. They've even found handbags she had forgotten she'd bought. They have tipped out her bedside cabinet and it looks like a porn bomb has gone off on the bed. There are dirty books, vibrators, hand cuffs and "other" toys everywhere.

We hurriedly tidy just as the caretaker lurches into the flat. He is a giant of a man. He stands about 7 foot 10 tall and it takes the moon about 2 hours to fully orbit his stomach. He is wearing a food stained sweater and smells like he's been drinking since 9am… Yesterday. He saunters around the flat surveying the damage and leaves mumbling something about fixing the door as soon as B&Q opens tomorrow.

We do a quick root around to see what is missing and draw up a list. The only thing we didn't think would be missing that was actually missing was two Canadian credit cards and about $150. There was very little in the flat that was of value but they took everything that was expensive and easily disposable. They knew their stuff. The policeman comes and goes; having a tea with milk and no sugar. He looks detached and weary, like the pressures of the impending paperwork will cause him to lose sleep.

We head back to my place so we can sleep behind a lockable, but unlocked, door. I press the button for the lift and we reflect on the craziness of the day. The lift pings and the doors open. The caretaker is stood in the lift with his back to us. And for that precise moment, with everything that had gone on, I feel like we are living in a horror movie. I fully expect to see him turn round and have an axe buried in his head or maybe wearing an apron stained in blood.