Sometimes I find myself wishing that children came with some sort of a warranty, so that I could go back to the hospital and say: 'I'm sorry, but I think that the brochure was a little misleading. I'd like to exchange this child for one that has a little more common sense.'

Especially this week when Shaman, my seven-year-old son, uttered one of those phrases that seemed purposefully designed to raise my blood pressure and make me wonder why I had once naively believed that children would bring a little innocence and light into my cynical life.

"Daddy," he softly whispered, as if the gentle tone in his voice would somehow soothe the impact of what came next. "There's water coming through the ceiling in the kitchen."

"What?" I cried out as I leapt to my feet. "Did someone leave the tap on upstairs?"

I quickly followed him into the bathroom and heard him fiddle with the sink.

"I guess I forgot to turn the water off," he shrugged as I bleakly stared down at the puddle of water that had now turned the floor into an Olympic-size swimming pool.

And that was when I heard the sarcastic voice spring out of my mouth. The one that all parents find themselves compelled to utter at times like this.

"What do you mean you guess you forgot? How can you put the plug in the sink, turn on the tap, and then simply stroll away?"

I grabbed all of the towels I could reach and threw them on to the carpet as he did something extremely sensible - something that may well have saved his life - because he quickly scampered under his bed and refused to come out no matter how loudly I growled.

I made a quick calculation and realised that the sink must have been overflowing for at least 20 minutes.

Then I fearfully took a step backwards, wondering if this was long enough to tenderise the innards of our house and provide me with a short, sharp drop to the ground floor.

Fortunately, no gaping hole opened up and swallowed me.

So I had to use the stairs to go and explore the scene below.

I hesitantly stepped into the kitchen, fully expecting to see the water gushing out from a crack in the ceiling.

Except that it wasn't streaming out of something as innocuous as a simple crack. This was my life after all, and lucky things like that just don't seem to happen to me.

Instead, it was pouring out through the metallic base of the large fluorescent light. The base that just happened to house the live electrical wires. Wires that could add a real spark to my life and give me an instant perm.

At least I could comfort myself with the knowledge that they weren't about to burst into flames. They were far too wet.

I threw a large pot down on the floor and then ran back upstairs to get more towels.

When I reached the linen closet, I heard an ominous crash emanating from down in the kitchen.

My heart filled with dread as I raced back down, certain that I was going to see the light and a good portion of the ceiling mocking me from a tattered heap on the floor.

Except that it wasn't.

Fate must have chosen that exact moment to play a practical joke on me, because the clock on the far wall had mysteriously slipped off its nail, crashed into the shelf below and sent the tea pot hurtling to ground.

And what was even more bizarre, was that neither the clock nor the tea pot were broken.

In fact, the only thing that really felt shattered was me.