Don’t expect the authorities to protect your home from flooding

Some years back, when I announced my decision to return to Manchester, I became the butt of a few jokes from my London pals. They mostly consisted of the usual clichés concerning whippets, flat caps and black puddings. There was also mention of ‘it’s grim up North’ and the weather.

I’ll give them that last one. There’s no getting around it: it rains here. Where I live, on the border of Greater Manchester and Lancashire in the shadow of the Pennines, rainfall is such that I am constantly battling slugs and leaky gutters.

Last year the floodwaters enveloped my small town. The cricket ground and the football club were completely inundated, the main road was only suitable for ducks and dolphins, and, in the next village up, an ancient pub was entirely washed away.

I often lament having to struggle up them there hills with my shopping but last winter I was thankful to live up a steep slope.