There’s A Hippo In My Cistern: One Man’s Misadventures on the Eco-Frontline. Pete May

heroes, Elvis Costello. Everything she says really does mean less than zero.

      We certainly save on burning unsustainable carbon-emitting gas. Even though we both work from home we’re not allowed any central heating in the daytime, not even for lunch. Occasionally Nicola goes out for the day and I furtively turn on the heating for an hour, judging when she’ll be back and whether the radiators will have cooled enough to avoid suspicion, feeling as guilty as a man playing a pornographic video while his partner is away.

      It’s not the warmest of flats, even with heating. We’re on the third and fourth floors of a Victorian house. The bedrooms are in the old attic and have sloping ceilings. A thin layer of plaster and roof slates keep the rain off our bed, but do little in terms of insulation. Several small cracks have opened up in the external walls. The insurance company thinks we might have subsidence and its surveyor has put studs in the walls to monitor any movement.