I do some tidying.

I tidied my room the other day. I had grown embarrassed by the squalor - not that I have a wider social circle that has access to my privileged inner sanctum (I've always found that such a rudely biological word) mind you, but it's a matter of pride and self-respecting. Besides, I'd got wind the mice had begun to form themselves into competing unions.

To cut an unnecessarily long story short in order to sooner reach the meaty but slightly smouldering payoff. I gathered together old receipts (I keep them for a little while, just in case I get framed for murder and need an alibi or something) that had been gathered themselves for many months and I put them in a bucket. Because, you see, in my mind burning is the new shredding. Identity theft isn't the leading concern, but I do enjoy burning and shredding stuff. I find it perfectly exhilarating.

Someone is welcome to come and steal my identity, I've got to be honest - my driving licence photo makes me look like McLovin' and my bank accounts share a remarkable amount in common with those of the Greek government. I wouldn't have a clue how to live off the grid, but I'm teetering on the verge of being thrown off it.

To actually cut a long story short, I melted my dad's bucket. It was a spectacular and thrilling moment. I did of course have the hose ready and waiting, safety fans, it was poised and prepared just as the plastic bucket folded in on itself, sizzled and bubbled. Once the smouldering stopped I went out to buy my dad a new bucket.

The 'invincible bucket', it's called. It has a picture of a Mercedes on the front, each wheel perched on one of these hideous yellow receptacles. Quite why you would ever go to the effort of propping a car on buckets is beyond me. I literally sweetened the deal with a packet of jelly babies inside, but it was truly hard to look sorry when it had been such a naughtily pleasurable activity. My name is Sam and I'm a pyromaniac.