One of Our Man's elderly neighbours has a statue of Buddha in her house. She says it predicts earthquakes. Our Mother-In-Law, who is deaf in one ear, could hear it vibrating when she popped round the other day.
This afternoon my neighbour phoned her: "The big one is coming. I'm going to Thailand for a few weeks and then to Paris. I'll see you in a month's time. Please look after yourself."
Our Mother in Law barely said a word at dinner.
Our Woman in Abiko took a more scientific approach to earthquake prediction. She looked at a map of Japan. "They are heading towards us," was her considered opinion. So tomorrow we will put the sleeping bags, spare clothes and tins of nuts back under the stairs for the first time in months.
Of course, none of us has a clue about when and where the next big one will hit, such decisions are made at boardroom level, not on the ground floor, under the stairs. But we peons do what we can: look for links, try to reveal the universal rule, the pattern that will unlock the mysterious behaviour of our higher-ups.
So, what to make of the man-made earthquake ripping though the Murdoch Empire? As of a few hours ago, Rebekah Brooks had resigned, Murdoch had taken out ads in every paper in the UK to apologise to the British public and the Prime Minister had some explaining to do about inviting Murdoch's hatchet man round to Chequers for tea.
What's Murdoch's game plan? Will Parliament be victorious? Here is the Just Cause, now all it takes are a couple of ringleaders to bring the tyrant to heel. Have we got them?
Our Man has no answers, but he will at least have plenty of nuts under the stairs.