Sitting quietly at home the other evening I found myself enveloped by a rather chill wind.

For a moment, I half-wondered whether an incarnation of Alistair Darling had snuck in behind the settee to hover over me like the Spectre of Christmas Future.

But, no.

As the Arctic-like draught persisted, I shivered my timbers and rose reluctantly from my seat to go in search of this less than balmy breeze.

"Have you left the front or back doors open," I enquired gently of those who were also huddling under my roof that night.

Two mightily indignant negative responses told me in no uncertain terms not to be so stupid as to suggest such nonsense on a night when the temperature outside was plummeting rapidly, and council grit-spreaders were scratching the windscreens of any cars which had the misfortune to be following behind them.

My concern over this breach in our home's thermal qualities did not go away, though.

There was definitely a "leak" somewhere, I could feel it and could not get comfortable as I watched a bunch of wussy footballers, clad in silly thermals under their shorts, playing a meaningless game in the cold somewhere a lot further north than Bristol.

Nevertheless, I could empathise a little as my own nether regions were getting cooler by the minute.

Much of my undisguised agitation was down to the fact that, over these past few days, the credit crunch has finally, after weeks of wobbling, begun to get at me.

Last year, on a night in late November, if the outside air was dropping below zero and I was feeling a draught I would have probably turned up the living flame fire and the radiator thermostat and thought no more about it.

Now, displaying traits not too dissimilar from a certain Ebenezer Scrooge, I find myself getting worried about any hot air I have paid for being diluted by some sneaky draught entering our home from outside.

It's all part of a general meanness that has crept up on me ever since the financial world fell apart faster than Humpty Dumpty and now seems incapable of putting itself back together, despite anything the Chancellor of the Exchequer or the Bank of England try to do about it.

Of course, being mean is at odds with what the Government seems to want.

They want you to go out and be profligate and not count the pennies. But, maybe, just maybe, this is where their great kick-starting of the economy is failing to materialise, because I cannot believe I am the only one in this vast nation of ours who is having a bit of a panic about, whether, on a personal basis, it's wise to do that right now. And, anyway, is saving now banned? Is personal thrift a punishable offence? You might think so.

Should your heart should rule your head? Or vice-versa?

Mrs D, however, is not suffering from the same depressing affliction as myself.

Daily, I am receiving orders from her for purchasing various seasonal gifts and goodies, while every evening she disappears into our home office, aka the small bedroom, to pulverise the computer keys for some more online orders. It's doing my financial confidence no good at all, I can tell you.

But back to that sneaky draught which was driving me nuts.

Some hours later, having attempted (and failed) to hermetically seal myself within our living room while I watched the footie, I decided to call it a day and head for bed.

Everyone else had long since had the same idea.

As I was checking that all our laser-controlled security systems were in place and fully operational, I finally discovered the source of my evening's grievance.

There, in the far recesses of our dining room, someone had opened a transom window. Through it was blowing an icy gale.

Despite intensive interrogation (which involved loud shouting at the foot of the stairs) no one has yet been prepared to accept responsibility.

Anyway, with much late night banging and crashing I slammed it shut and, in an instant, I felt a warm, almost festive, glow surround me.

Alistair Darling had finally left the building ...