“Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.”

Lying in bed, tossing and turning from the rain and the thunder and the lightning. Through the cacophony of sounds you make out the most insidious of them all.

“Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.”

Yes indeed, your 110-year-old house has begun to leak, water oozing through plaster cracks, in the kitchen, in the dining room, in the bedroom. Everywhere it can seep in. Racing around with bowls and old t-shirts and towels, like a mad Dutch dervish, desperate to find them all, until you give up and head back to bed, defeated by nature.

“Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.”

On and on it goes, for hours. No sleep for the homeowner of a Victorian house last night. None at all.