NOTHING works. It’s getting out of hand. Apocalyptic, ken? As you know, I try to be upbeat (shut up, youse), but even I’m beginning to be worn down by it all.

The NHS is stuffed, dental treatment is an unattainable ideal, we can’t afford the leccy, football teams won’t be able to put their floodlights on this winter, housing – like anything left to the free market – is insane, bins are overflowing, rats stoat aboot willy and arguably nilly, posties are on strike so there’s no daily Xmas present from Amazon, and it’s just one pandemic after another.

It would be easy to give in to despair. So let’s do that. The chaos in society is mirrored in my private life, where I hold my head in my hands and repeatedly intone: “Nothing works.” This is, not quite literally, true.

My internet connection has slowed so much that, in the unlikely event I’d be interested in “swanky places to eat in Oslo”, I’d be quicker getting on a plane and taking a look.

Trying to watch a footer match on telly, the picture is too dark. In the good old days, you’d a simple “brightness” button – ingenious! – on the front, but now you must try to find “settings” on one of your five remotes. Even then it says brightness is already at max. Online, after three days waiting for a connection, you find the most helpful forum solution for your telly is: “My picture’s dark too.”

Seeking solace in the racket-racked garden, I find the ultrasonic gizmos supposed to stop cats pooping clearly haven’t worked, the hand-propelled lawnmower is jammed irretrievably, and the holey hose has all the force of an old man’s micturition.

Back indoors, with my boiler on the blink, I’ve had no hot water for three weeks and no prospect of any for another week. I stand at the toilet sink soaping myself with water from the kettle like a bairn in a 1950s slum. I can’t even shut the bathroom door properly as it has come off its bottom hinge. I’m becoming unhinged myself.

In the kitchen, despite repeated DIY repairs, my drawers are all wonky. And no, madam, I’m not referring to my underwear (more of which below).

Never mind rats. In the middle of last night, getting up for a wizz, I was confronted by a wee moose sitting on the floor. He gave me a look that said: “I wish you’d get a lock on this door, Rab.”

I’ve spent every waking moment of the last three years blocking up mouse holes and potential entrances. Thought at last I’d cracked it but naw: nothing works.

I run around in my pants trying to catch the rodent in a flower vase marked “A present from North Berwick”. Nae luck. After that, and trying to make consoling toast in the incinerator (as it should have been called), I can’t get back to sleep, not least for worrying that the mouse is going to pop up and say: “Shove over a bit and stop hogging the duvet.”

So I go on a news website and read: “A bad night’s sleep results in early death.” Excellent, I tell myself, it’s all going swimmingly.

I envisage my last moments on this ghastly globe. Where before this involved heavenly music by Genesis or Yes, and angels in Hibs scarves bearing celestial fish suppers, now I see myself left lying prostrate on the floor, waiting in vain for an ambulance to come. The final, ineffably erudite words on my dying lips: “Nothing works.”

However, I am unwilling to leave you on a gloomy note. So, let me reveal exclusively that, lately, I’ve found my five-minute morning meditation helpful. There’s a better universe within yourself. So why not borrow my mantra, folks? Come on. Compose yourself. Take a few deep breaths. And all together now: “Everything is rubbish. Everything is …”

A lot to take in

ONLY two short periods in my life approached contentment. During one, I wrote in the morning, tended my allotment in the afternoon, and worked in the evening (sorting mail). I’d little money, but was only moderately unhappy.

The writing amounted to nothing and became rather formulaic: “Dear Sir, Following your recent pools win, I wonder if you could see your way …”

As for the work, well, the sorting office is no more, and our merry gang long dispersed. The allotment? Same old story: soon as I got the soil turned and the plot sorted, I moved away to live elsewhere. No roots, d’you see?

I write in the wake of a survey that found one in five allotment owners had sabotaged the plot of neighbours – even peeing on their potatoes – out of envy or, you know, just being human.

How awful people are today. They weren’t awful in the past. Everyone was excellent. They smiled more, and wore elegantly flared trousers – still the most aesthetically pleasing design for the human leg.

I remember everyone on my allotment site being friendly. The plot was sandwiched between a prison, cemetery and slaughterhouse. The electricity pylons were another nice touch. But it was still a pleasant, green valley. Where nobody micturated on your turnips.