Iremember well when it began.

It was the autumn of 2006, and my wife and I had got our south London basement flat just as we wanted it. But a dodgy drain let us down.

Dirty water seeped slowly in through a manhole, which existed – unbeknown to us – beneath the bathroom floor. It soaked the new carpets in the bedroom and the hallway, got into the skirting boards and threatened to ruin the myriad possessions stashed under our bed.

We had the drain cleared and surveyed; the carpets were replaced, thankfully covered by insurance. It wouldn’t happen again. But it did, albeit not as badly. The carpets were not completely wrecked that time and the drain man said it would now be OK.

Yet I didn’t believe him. I lay awake at night, occasionally leaning out of bed to check if the floor was wet. W

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