There comes a point when, as you’re pressure washing, you have to accept that you are covering all the flower pots that were beautifully washed by your girlfriend at the weekend with every little bit of detritus the patio has to offer.

You have to own it. And you have to hope that she won’t notice.

But, of course, the woman who once couldn’t find her can of coke because it was in her hand can’t help but notice the mess you have made.

But, on the plus side I managed to find a window when there was no washing out on either side of us and the OCD neighbour was out so she couldn’t stress about any muck which may have sprayed her way.

And I pressure washed like a pro.

By which I mean I stayed entirely on point and washed only the patio.

And a drain pipe.

But honestly, that was all.

Just the patio and that one pipe.

And the gate between us and the noisy neighbours. Which took all the paint off it, amazingly.

And the planter we made from an old barbecue, just because it was there.

But mainly the patio.

Fun fact about our patio, if you hit the cement between the slabs just right it flies out like a small explosive charge has been placed underneath it.

Honestly, it really fills me with confidence as to the structural integrity of the whole thing. Hopefully the water from the pressure washer hasn’t opened up a hitherto benign sinkhole which will swallow the garden as we sleep.

But knowing the way this house throws up surprises no-one can say for sure. If the film The Money Pit hadn’t already existed for many, many years I’d think someone who lived here wrote it. That is to say, me.

As long as it doesn’t take next door’s new fence with it.