Clanging pipes and a power cut

One day each week I work from home. (In case you've forgotten, or have just tuned in, I'm the writer for hire, temporarily giving up the dream to pay a new mortgage, renovations, etc.). With a bit of time-off looming, I've been looking forward to reclaiming my home office and perhaps returning to creative writing. (Please hold your collective hallelujahs.)

The last three weeks have boded ill for the writing-at-home gig. Note the following (and keep in mind that I am not exaggerating!):

This week: After spending two hours on the phone with Revenue Canada (Canadian equivalent of Inland Revenue), with a very UNSATISFACTORY conclusion, I managed three hours of productive writing before the pipes in the basement started clanging in a most frightening manner. After ascertaining that the downstairs toilet was acting up, I was in the process of peering into the tank when the electricity went off. An hour later, after imagining all sorts of gloom and doom — for surely the two problems were related, or so I figured — I had temporarily fixed the toilet and discovered that the local power company had shut off the power without notifying us first. By then it was time to pay my overdue taxes, so off I trotted to the bank, and then to pick up my daughter. Total hours worked out of the expected 7.5: 3.

The previous week: As my daughter recently turned 10, and wanted nothing more (besides an Ipod!) than a sleepover with her friend, I gave in and allowed her to have it during the week (school is out for the summer in any case). The girls played nicely in the morning, and at noon we set off for the park for lunch. I did some editing after our picnic but the girls soon tired of running around and proclaimed themselves boiling hot. So we returned to the air-conditioned house (see below) and to a message from the other mom inviting the girls back to her place for a swim. I called and she promised to pick the girls up in half an hour. TWO HOURS later she showed up, whisked the girls away, at which time I started tapping frantically at the keyboard; after all, it was four o'clock by now — if I was lucky I could get in two hours of additional work before it was time to collect my daughter. FORTY MINUTES later the mom was back; apparently she'd locked herself out of the house. At this point I called it a day. Total hours: 4.5.

Two weeks ago: I had two sets of workmen in the house, one set demolishing the decrepit front porch, another installing a new air-conditioning system. Plus at noon my daughter and her friend returned home early from school, as it was their last day. The girls I hardly saw. The workmen, on the other hand, kept pestering me with questions such as these:

• Can we use the bathroom?
• Which power outlet outside may we use?
• Could we have a glass of water, please?
• The garage door won't close and we want to go to lunch. We don't want our ladder stolen. Could you come out and see what is the matter with the door?
• Where is the nearest Home Depot (DIY store)?
• Here is the list of supplies we need. [Five minutes later] Oops, I forgot to include x on the list. May I see it again?
• [Several hours later, when I'm in bed in my pjyamas, editing] Hello, so sorry to have rung your doorbell five times, but we forgot [big expensive piece of equipment] in your backyard and it might rain tonight. Could we put it in the garage? Good night, now.

Am I doomed? Tell me it isn't true.