Was about to call the Macdoctor out to deal with bleach-damaged computer, when Thomas stepped in to say he'd have a look first.

Damage occurred when multitasking mother tried to deal with work calls, while simultaneously making devil horns for Rugrats' Hallowe'en disco, from tops of toilet ducks - but it all went wrong and contents of toilet duck emptied over keyboard, which has since stopped functioning.

While am self ready to admit defeat, instantly, if anything goes wrong with computer and call in support, Thomas likes to work his way through the Machandbook methodically - and then admit defeat.

So, while I boogied the night away with a toilet duck horned devil, a fairy and a baby pumpkin (no drugs involved) Thomas sat in home office, experimenting with various pin configurations and software loading, in a valiant attempt to save me the effort (and the considerable cash involved) of calling out the Macdoctor.

"Even if I can't actually remedy the problem," he said, "at least I will have eliminated a few options and that should save Macdoctor time and you money in the long run."

The theory seemed reasonable and of course had the added bonus, as far as Thomas was concerned, that it got him out of Hallowe'en disco.

When we returned we found Thomas enjoying Sky sports from the comfort of the sofa, claiming he had only just finished trying to fix my computer, couldn't but had reached the conclusion that it wasn't working.

"I think you're going to have to call the Macdoctor," he said. "You can tell him I've tried all the obvious things but it still doesn't seem to work."

Resisting the temptation to point out that I had reached pretty much the same conclusion, without taking the liberty of opting out of family life, I picked up the phone and made appointment with Macdoctor for Monday morning.

Without wishing to offend the members of the species who comprehend things technical, I had been expecting a small, wiry, bespectacled anoraky type who would flourish in the confined, dark space of the boot cupboard turned office and was a little taken aback to discover a six foot plus, well built, thirtyish man who looked a bit like George Clooney standing on the doorstep.

I ushered him into the cupboard, and apologised for the working conditions (he could barely fit his long legs under the table) while I went to apply make up and brush hair.

I was trying to artfully arrange a few stray wisps of hair around face when he emerged saying that the problem was fixed.

"That was quick," I said. "My husband spent the whole of Saturday evening before reaching the conclusion that it didn't work."

"You just needed to turn it on with the extensions file turned off," he said, while I wondered whether his dark good looks emanated from Greece as well as the language he was speaking.

"Ahhh, lovely," I replied, at a loss for an appropriate answer to a sentence containing the word extensions manager. "Coffee?"

He said he'd love one and stayed for a couple of hours, eating the special biscuits which I hide from the Rugrats and are meant only for me - hours which turned out to be included in his extortionate bill.

"Seems a bit steep just for turning the thing on with the extensions switched off," said Thomas, eyeing the receipt suspiciously at the end of the day, before adding: "Are you going somewhere? Lots of make-up."

I decided not to tell him that, to me, it seemed quite a reasonable amount to pay for the pleasure of spending the morning on the sofa with someone who bore a fleeting resemblance to George Clooney ...