There must be a little masochist inside me. A cranky, self-flagellating man, Silas from the Dan Brown books if you will. Because I am laying here, desperate with thirst, dry lipped, sore throated, enfeebled and headachy in a flat with working taps and many bottles of Evian. None of these happen to be within arms reach. So it is probably safe to assume that my masochist is in cahoots with the lazy bastard who keeps my arse welded to the sofa. This is how people kill themselves slowly.