Ms Stob is haunted by the ghost of Christmas past.

I wake up on ring two, as one does when woken from sleep by the phone, and continue to lie on my back, summoning the will to open my eyelids. At ring seven, I manage it, and at ring eight-and-one-half, I have pawed enough gunk out of my eye sockets to read a green ‘5:13’ from the alarm clock.

When they want to show a hangover in Asterix, they draw the character with a bubble over his head with a log being sawn in half. The bubble above my head contains a fibreglass 1970s-yellow Japanese car being cut up by a chainsaw gang. Covered in sweat, a frightful pain in the centre of my skull, photophobia, my saliva glands apparently having put in about half an hour’s production of oil waste before packing it in completely. All seasoned with an ambient hint of nausea.

Wade through own discarded clothes and over crunchy yet sharply penetrating bits of plastic to the bathroom, ditch toothpaste and toothbrush in basin, fill the toothpaste tumbler brimful with Listerine, gulp Listerine, remember halfway through gulping Listerine that Listerine is non-gulpable, attempt to ungulp Listerine but instead manage to inhale about half a mouthful, fall to the floor kicking and struggling and coughing. After thirty seconds regain use of airway. With great effort, sit down on toilet seat and pant, helpless.

Bathroom sprayed liberally all over now like the inside of the back of John Travolta’s and that black chap’s car in Pulp Fiction, only with Listerine instead of errm, you know. Nausea advances a notch. Still, if I do throw up, at least I won’t die from Listerine poisoning. There’s a comfort Verity.

What the hell have I been drinking? Must have been port. Recognise symptoms. Only port does this to me: liquid paracetamol unfortunately from the anti-matter universe. Good grief, you’d think I was old enough to…

Hello.

Phone still ringing.

This must be about ring 37. It is either a really determined pervert, the looney who leaves orders for Pizza deliveries at all hours, double glazing or dear relative in clog-popping peril. Blunder into hall and put out reluctant hand to pick up receiver. But phone sees me coming and stops ringing just in time.

Pro’lly just the Pizza man, fancying an early brekka. Actually, I’d sort of like to have a little word with the Pizza man. But of course I am never there when he rings – always find his message on the answering machine: one medium Hawaiian with stuffed crust, as quick as poss. I’ll stuff his crust yet.

Hold on: his message. Why am I barking at five in the morning when I am a dog owner? Where’s my trusty answering machine? Brief tactile exploration discovers corpse of answering machine and multiple fragments on floor. Rather as though someone had knocked over little table and then blundered drunkenly across contents. Who could have committed this dreadful crime? Must remember to call in Miss Marple on this one, later in the day.

Am suffering strong sense of second boot dropping syndrome, so I sweep an area of carpet clear of debris with my hand, and sit down on the hall floor. Sure enough the phone rings within a few seconds, and I pick it up at once.

‘Hello? Hello Verity?’

The voice is male and awake and familiar and clipped-Germanic-foreign and horribly, horribly enthusiastic – like a puppy. I try out my voice.

‘Ooooozat?’

‘Hello Verity, it is me, Patrick. I am sorry, am I waking you up?’

‘’S five inna morning, Whajerfink?’

‘No no, here in Rotterdam it is nearly half past six.’

Ah. Now I know who this is. This is Patrick, husband of my old friend Fiona. She married a native of The Netherlands and, well, went Dutch.

‘Hey Verity, I am having a problem with my compuder. He will not play the new car game that I am buying for Christmas.’

‘Hey Verity, don’t say that rude thing. Please help me, for the kids’ sakes.’

There’s only one kid in Fion’s household, and I’m talking to him. Patrick knows I know this. Damn. You’ve got to help somebody with a sense of humour – it’s The Law.

‘The problem is he gives a message which says’ – some Triple Dutch – ‘which means "the steerer is not correctly in place."’

‘Ah, so you haven’t got a driver loaded.’ (I admit it, I’ve given Patrick tech support before.)

Ninety minutes later, I have Patrick zooming around his virtual track with CD-ROM access restored and IRQ and I/O port (incoming and outside harbour) conflicts resolved and stereo sound enabled, and, as I put down the phone, I admit it, I do feel much better – triumphantly James Herriotish. Good morning Mr Farnon, yes we did have an early call from Maastritch Farm, no, no need to bother Tristan, I sorted it myself.

Outside the flat, London is beginning the day in sci-fi disaster silence: there is no background hiss of cars and lorries on the wet motorway, no comforting rumble clatter and whine of tube trains as they cross the bridge into the station, and no snow falling snow on snow, snow on snow on snow. It is Christmas morning.