Let's be vulgar and talk about money. Of course, in Britain, it's only the working class and the nobs who talk about money; the middle classes remain silent, eating off their Peter Rabbit plates and wiping their mouths on their serviettes.
You know how it is. You husband your resources and measure out your money, and then a storm of expenses rains down on you.
In the balmy days of Spring (Can you still remember those two days?), I committed to some redecoration of the house and some recarpeting, figuring that I could absorb that cost. About £2500. say.
But during the balmy days of August (I think there was one, but it was over by midday), I got an estimate from my dentist: work amounting to another £1500.
And today, my central heating boiler finally died on me (It had every right to: it's an external boiler and has had a rotten time of it out there in all weathers). Estimate still awaited for the replacement, but my plumber told me "not to expect much change out of £2500".
So, my aristo-proletarian friends, we are talking an estimated painful extraction from the Allsop coffers of around £6500 before the end of October, most of it unexpected.
Oh hell, it's only money. I just don't know how I'm going to break the news to my vintner.