You know, the one that nipped out the loo and never actually reappeared because their round of drinks was the next one looming.
Multiply that tightness by a zillion, throw in a crippling economic crisis and you might get a rough idea of how challenging it is to get an insurance company to cough up for a job.
We have sprung a leak. A sizeable leak, yet, bizarrely one which is proving to be as elusive as Shergar.
No-one knows where the water is coming from, except there is so much of it under our floor that we are about to float off down the street.
When a plumber lifted the floorboards, Child Number One shot off in search of a swimming costume and a pair of goggles.
Number Two dug out the flippers. The Man wept a river.
Yet, apparently, there is no rush for anyone from our insurance company to feel any pressing need to assess the damage.
So as we bob about and try not to breathe too often since the stench of dirty water is so overpowering, we are at the mercy of the phone that never rings and the promised appointments that fail to materialise.
We are not a priority, you understand.
Calls to chase up the problem are expensive; premium rate tariffs are the only way to get in contact and being on hold for nigh on 20 minutes is not cheap.
Promised call-backs remind The Man of a previous life when a scribbled number on nightclub paper failed to bring forth a return.
As many have discovered, insurance companies have made it an art form to wriggle out of their responsibilities, catching you off-guard with tiny clauses that reveal if anything substantial happens to your property they are able to wring their hands and walk away if the day ends in a 'y'.
SO we wait with baited breath for the surveyor to come to assess the damage.
Doubtless we will then face a substantial wait before a decision is made to call in the pumps and start bailing out the water.
In the meantime, we are a rather narky bunch.
Number One cannot understand the denial of a swimming pool within our reach while the allure of piles and piles of toys decamped into our small, cluttered living space lost its appeal after all of half an hour.
The clock is ticking. Nothing continues to happen except the ground gets a little wobblier every so often.
If only they answered a cry for help as keenly they take the monthly direct debit.
