Eighteen hours after leaving Lindsay’s house in California we are walking the few yards from the car to our front door, jogging with backpacks on for those few paces to get out of the cold as quickly as possible. After seven weeks in the sun a February English evening doesn’t feel great. “Phil?”, calls Michaela from upstairs, “the screen’s blank”. “What screen?”. “The heating system”. The house is utterly perishing cold. It’s becoming plain that the heating – and hot water – must have failed weeks ago; carpets don’t get to feel like sheets of ice in a few days. Frantic fuse changing brings no joy, we’re going to have…