So there we were, eight of us sitting around the dining table after a hearty meal at ten-thirty on New Year's Eve.

We were all in good spirits awaiting the chime of midnight. We had eaten the last few morsels of cheese and two bottles of fine port were all but dry. Friends were telling a long and hilarious story of their recent holiday to Australia when - amidst the laughter - the telephone rang...

Had I known the jingle from the telephone was actually the chime of doom, I probably wouldn't have answered it. But I did...and two uninvited guests called Chaos and Panic intruded in spectacular fashion, wreaking total havoc on our evening.

The excitable voice on the other end of the line was my tenant, Lawrence Collins, who had been living in my buy-to-let apartment together with his wife and baby daughter, without incident, for the last eight months. The ground floor apartment was within just a few minutes walk of my home on Salford Quays in Manchester.

Mr Collins conversation came in chunks of loud, angry and mostly incomprehensible expletives. I heard a few recognisable words - ones that strike terror in the minds of all landlords. My heart rate suddenly increased to a level where it pounded heavily against my rib cage. These words were: '...water gushing everywhere...no electric...need you here NOW...'.