My Uncle Eric is telephoning the zoo to ask how many Thompson’s gazelles a lion can eat in a fortnight.
Uncle Silas is stuffing a weasel on the kitchen table by candlelight (we have a power cut).
A respectful knock at the front door heralds the arrival of yet another minibus full of pilgrims hoping for a miracle.
Outside it is raining - a typical, nasty, dank November drizzle - and a piglet is trying to get in through the cat flap.
In the midst of all this, I am trying to cobble together something for our supper (the weasel is being prepared for posterity rather than for consumption).
I pause to take stock.
Six months ago, I had a regular job, a monthly salary and a comfortable flat to go home to.
How on earth have I got into all this?