Awoken by the sound of six fire engines, two ambulances and a whole host of police cars milling around with engines running and lights flashing outside my window (well, on the street outside - to be outside my fourth floor window, they’d have to be levitating, and I don’t think the 21st century has progressed to flying cars just yet).

Next door is on fire. Poking my head out of the window, I discover great billows of smoke pouring from the old house next door to my building. And about thirty-five fireman standing around doing very little. I presume from their laid back stance and lack of action that I have snoozed through the majority of the drama.

Down on the street, two girls I recognise from the flat below, dressed in fluffy dressing gowns and slippers, climb down from a fire engine cab, blushing furiously. I imagine they have made some bawdy bravado remark about wanting to see someone’s helmet, and have met their match.

It is only eight forty-five.

Good morning, London.