I stayed up until 1.30 am. The little ant-like bots still wouldn’t bounce off the walls for me, and I’m buggered if I can understand Donald’s code. Going to bed with that sick-like “It’s way too late!” feeling, knowing my weekend will pay for it.

The ants lay a pheromone trail as they carry chunks of food home to the nest. Pretty soon, others stumble on it, and a busy traffic jam forms, like cars backing up to cross the Forth. (Bridge out of action now. Colleagues today said I should start a water taxi service from Queensferry, with my dinghy. I think not.)

Bombay Mix is a great savoury snack, but I didn’t expect ants to go for it. Still, I hung the food bag on a coat peg out of harm’s way. When we woke in the morning, a river of ants, in spate, was pouring up and down the wall, out onto the hook, into the bag. Spicy toasted lentils and deep-fried noodle fragments disappeared into a crack in the timber panelled wall – not far from the unnoticed “Look out for ants!” sign. A good hour after I’d binned the stuff, disappointed foot soldiers were still following that trail and returning hungry.

There’s a point in the code that says “If there’s no place to go, don’t go!” Luke and I set up the world with a big building against the wall, between the food and home. Pretty soon, an encampment of trapped bots were just sitting there, knowing home was beyond the building, but too stubborn to walk the long way round.

It would have been fun to add sound, and make them grumble while they waited there – and especially, to add a “Yay!” each time an ant found food.

Essentially, I know I don’t have time for this. Christmas and birthdays loom, and the pressure to organise a wonderful festive season slowly builds the uncomfortable tension in my chest. I’m running out of time.

I snap the laptop lid shut and blearily find my own way home to bed, without lentil or noodle.