DEEP DOWN IN THE LONDON TUNDRA

London thinks it is the Arctic tundra, so of course my boiler decides to break. I have no heat but plenty of fresh air, seeping through the old window frames. If I shake my head at the right angle, it looks like a L'Oreal commercial.

I tried to take a hot shower, and all I got was a Slush Puppie.

Blue Raspberry Flavour.

I have yet to spot a boiler magician within a one-mile radius of my house. A pigeon did fly straight into my window earlier. Perhaps in an attempt to help, but I doubt boilers are his area of expertise.

So I went into the wild, hunting for a heater fan. They are extinct. In all of London's Argos's there are no sources of heat left. None. Zero. Degrees. Brrrr.

After four hours, I found a portable radiator. However, I am heating up only from disappointment: I wanted a fire in an oil barrel for an authentic homeless Detroit rapper look.

Oh, well. Thank god I have the fireplace app.

Does anyone here know how to operate flintstones?

Argh, forget it.

If you find an unusually large ice cube in your drink this weekend, it is probably me. Make sure to order a strong cocktail.

I can confirm that none of these footprints belongs to a certified boiler magician.