The phone rings before Saturday Kitchen has even started.

It must be important because everyone I know understands that I don't like to do anything on a Saturday until after the "Omelette Challenge" and that includes answering the phone. Normally I'd ignore it but the tinny, Sega-MegaDrive-like notes of the Imperial March from Star Wars inform me that it's my dad. Worried that something serious has happened, or that he's about to go to the Cash and Carry and needs me to place an order, I pick up the phone.

"Remember back when you moved out of your old place and you had all that water coming down through the ceiling…." He says.

"Ssssshhhhhh!!!!! I told all my blog readers that it wasn't me and pinned the story on someone else!" I hiss.

"Well it's happing at our place. I've managed to stop the water flowing but I need your help to….."

By this point I have zoned out. All I am thinking of is how I now have to haul my ass out of the house before I've showered and before I've even had time to run some product through my hair. Not only has my "Saturday Timetable" gone completely up the spout but now I'm going out like one of them unkempt scruffians from the Foo Patrol or the Snow Fighters or some other similar band full of people who haven't washed since Noah was a lad and spent 3 years at University stoned.

I put my Maple Leafs cap on.

I get to my parent's after speeding down the back streets of Manchester. I can only assume that if I was stopped by a Policeman "Driving to your parent's house to prevent it from flooding" would be one of those excuses that at first they wouldn't believe but then they'd come round and end up giving you a "Blues an Twos" escort to save the day. I arrive and open the door. I see an ominous sign. The Extension Chord is out and his Inspection Light is illuminating the Loft, which is once place that I've never really liked going - along with Leeds.

I take the "eating chocolate ice cream" approach to going into the loft. I shut my eyes; pretend I don't have a problem with it and just dive straight in. Before I know it I'm stood up in the loft looking at the water tank. It hasn't even crossed my mind that the dark recesses of the loft are a perfect breeding ground for spiders.

The spiders seem to have given up for the year at my place. Maybe it's because I've left the vacuum out in the middle of the living room - The vacuum is the spider's natural enemy. Of course they could've just been scared away by the ants. Ants vs Spiders! It would be like the movie Aliens vs Predator but entertaining and interesting.

"The water tank was overflowing but I've fixed that by bending the ball cock back." my Dad says as I try not to snigger. "But the reason it's been spewing water out is because this pipe has been disconnected for ages. So what I need you to do is go round there and join those two pipes up. I'd do it but I can't get round there. This loft isn't made for the slightly larger gentleman."

It isn't made for the slightly smaller gentleman either. This job is ideally suited to a dwarf plumber. There has to be one somewhere on the Internet.

I twist and contort to get under the water tank. I hold on to beams and avoid stepping on the lagging. I tread carefully making sure I stay balanced on the joists. I feel like a contestant on the Crystal Maze not wanting the ignominy of getting locked in. I get round to the two ends of the pipe and try to reconnect them.

Thud.

The only end of the pipe that is where it should be has fallen out of the tank. After threading my way back to the tank and reattaching the pipe to the tank, I get back to the main task.

After kneeling on pointy bits of wood for the past half hour, my knees are starting to hurt. My dad hands me a sheepskin rug to balance on. It must've been up here since the mid 80s. I start to pull on the errant pipe that is sticking out of the roof. I pull and I pull and it won't budge. Like a white-shirt-wearing, teenage boy soaked in cheap aftershave, I am trying my hardest to pull. And then all of a sudden like a tramp-stamped, fuck-me-boot wearing teenage girl - pulling becomes easy. With a twist and a tweak, I'm done. To relieve some of the pressure, I loosely tie the pipe to a beam to with a knot I learnt through some casual bondage and head towards the ladder.

Everything has gone surprisingly well until I nearly miss the ladder on the way down. If it weren't for my supreme upper body strength, I would've been eating ladder-en-skull served on a bed of floor and wilted carpet.

Quite pleased with my morning's work, I stand by the sink washing my hands. My hat and shirt are covered with bits of fluff, lagging and dirt. "Pass your clothes over here," my Dad says "I'll give them a vacuum." Not wanting to pass up the unusual opportunity of seeing my Dad with a vacuum, I hand them over. He's vacs away. I am glad that my freshly product-ed hair isn't covered in this stuff - that would've required a lot more effort and be much more painful when vacuumed.

I stand there topless. There's something quite disturbing about mulling around nearly naked in front of a member of your direct family. Let me tell you, it's a lot easier if you're only 10, it's your uncle and he's using you and your cousin to film a remake of Spartacus.

I get my clothes back and take a packet of Oreos from the big cupboard as payment for my work. I head out and sit down in the car with a roll of duck tape and a handful of bin-bags legitimately placed on the passenger's seat. I drive towards my second task of the day.

(I'm not going to the Conservative party conference)