Chris Martin might attempt to stick Gwyneth back together with Copydex but I had other ideas.
First of all, getting in the plumber to fix the leak under the sink. There is an odour here, which I first noticed upon viewing the place, and which is like rotten water and rotten particleboard. I have tried putting vinegar and bicarbonate of soda down every orifice in the flat (bet Chris Martin didn't try that), followed by kettles of boiling water. I have wiped out the cupboards with neat vinegar. I have taken off bottle traps to see if any bottles are trapped. Nothing. It must be the leak.
After work I took my spine to a highly-recommended physio in Brussels. I think she's pretty good, though time will tell. She explained that when I came off those zip wires it's possible that stuff (she did say exactly what but I'm no good at bones) sort of slid a bit off kilter and it's aggravated the muscles and ligaments all around. So basically my entire right hip has been sulking for a year.
We did lots of manipulating things and then she attached me to what felt like a doorbell and left me laying flat for ten minutes, my back buzzing at intervals. The only problem is, laying on my back makes me not breathe, and I had a rather nasty attack of not breathing, and then considerable coughing that lasted until Gent.
On my return home, excited at the idea of the plumber having been, I was slightly desperated (a word used by a Francophone colleague) that my plumber appears to be Heath Robinson. There is silver foil and string and a hook. Sadly the parts of the pipe that are actually fucking leaking remain untouched.
I should really lay on the floor and do my exercises. Sulky hip demands it. But no, I think first of all you deserve a photo.