False start

Wake up freezing cold and tired, but have a rush of nervous excitement about the day ahead. It's ok, I've done all I can myself to prepare. Lauren and I have designed our first lesson around getting to know you activities, combined with the slightly more frivolous of educational exercises proscribed by our curriculum, such as the spaghetti challenge. I imagine on the one hand a modestly sized, happy bank of receptive female faces ranged in front of us. Lauren distributing our marshmallows round the class,  whilst I scrawl islands of assets and aspirations across a whiteboard, meticulously picked out with palm trees and frolicking dolphins.

Then the alternative rears it's nonplussed, utterly unimpressed head. An intimidating posse of 20 surly old year old Kenyan business men wondering what these faintly ridiculous mzungu kids are doing prancing in incomprehensible and irritating circles in front of them. I am suddenly very glad we decided not to include the 'let's all create playdough alien's!' exercise at least before we've met each group. All I can do is make like Lucy and trust to God rocking up at the 11^th hour, and giving us a receptive and enthusiastic class.

It feels too early when I wake up. As I crawl out of bed I become aware of the water pump roaring, as though for a shower, only louder than usual. I cast around feebly for a victim to hang my pissed-off hat on, but I know no one is really up and having a shower at this time of night. An investigation of the hall and shower confirm what I already suspect. It's just the house doing what it does best, royally screwing us over with precision-planned timing.

The sound of rain is deafening, it seems to be inside the house. In and out of the thunder I hear squealing. I prepare myself for the worst.

I return to my room and open the door to a scene from Jumanji. I seem to have rolled 'monsoon' on the magic dice. The deluge is confined exclusively to the area over my bed.

Lucky? To have got out of bed in the nick of time. My midnight melodrama of mood dwelled grimly on my narrow escape from certain death. To be fair, the water tank had actually just exploded above my head.

Thank the lord for my laptop being down stairs and not on the floor. Money, hairdryer, straighteners, ipod, all in my suitcase which now looks like a miniature ornamental pond with murderously floating electrical devices, all plugged into the plug rank I bought for a mere 400 shillings.

Someone turns the power off, and sorts the tank out. I lift not a finger but sit downstairs unhelpfully weeping. Josh lends me his hoodie and I sleep on a too short sofa under a couple of Amy's scarves, all very pretty but not particularly distinguished for their thermal qualities. Amy's bed is already soaked from the reservoir of water dripping down through my mattress from the top bunk. We both get a little hysterical, she is good at diverting a potential psychological breakdown into a giggling fit. Tomorrow, or next week, maybe next year, I might find it genuinely pretty funny. It's not even 2 am yet.

The nightly canine cacophony strikes up on queue. It's finally quiet circa 3.24 am.

After about five minutes peace, a tiny yap from what must be Satan's chihuahua. Like the first nervous clap of a controversial applause, started by someone who normally does not dare to initiate such things, there's a wickedly expectant and self-satisfied pause before the barks begin to roll round the neighbourhood once again.