At last we know. Tony Blair can't walk on water.

Neither can he part the floods or stop the rain.

At the Foss Flood Barrier, Mr Blair gave an impromptu press conference. To his right, the Ouse swirled ominously. To his left the Foss edged ever closer to the top of the barrier. All the while a biblical rain hammered down.

At this point, a TV reporter looked him in the eye and asked: "Prime Minister, what are you going to do about this?"

Answer came there none.

Mr Blair gave up performing miracles when our faith in him wavered. I blame the WI.

Yesterday he was simply on a Prime Ministerial sloshabout, hoping that his presence alone would reassure folk that every-thing was going to be all right.

Mr Blair's shoes were a minor miracle, mind. For a man who had already toured the saturated South, the black leather remained remarkably mud-free. His trouser bottoms were crisp and I bet even his socks were dry.

Only the most disrespectful drops dodged his brolly to land on the Premier's shoulders. It was as if he had been treated with Ronseal quick-drying woodstain in the helicopter.

Meanwhile, a huddle of hacks tried to write down his thoughts in the downpour. It was like crocheting treacle.

Looking at the papier mach lump that was once my notebook I can confirm he said: "extraordinary ... some of the worst ... we have got to make sure ... people right around the country ... climate change ... a lot more investment ... Prescott's hopeless ..." I may have mis-transcribed that last bit.

Mr Blair had chosen to wear an Eric Morecambe coat, but any hopes that he might do a chorus of Bring Me Sunshine soon evaporated. Instead this song and dance was ended as abruptly as it began and he was whisked away in the warmth of his limo.

The warm-up act was much more entertaining. A trio of residents rescued from the floodwater at City Mills sheltered housing - though not sheltered enough, clearly - were due to be introduced to Mr Blair.

Before he arrived, they were brought in to meet the press. It was a strange scene. Three white-haired ladies, aged from 66 to 97, seated in the bowels of the Foss Barrier engine room, bombarded by questions from Sky TV, radio stations and the papers. They looked in their element.

At one point a white-haired gentleman seemed set to join them. But this turned out to be Rod Hills, leader of the council, sans Old Labour leather jacket, instead hardly recognisable in New Labour blue suit.

Now wait a minute ... you don't think Rod's engineered this whole thing as a drastic answer to York's swimming pool crisis, do you?

Excuse me while I dry off. I think I may have water on the brain