The discovery was made thanks to the novelist, Griffin Basin, a writer of moderate critical acclaim and commercial success.

"I was woken up one morning last July by an almighty 'thrup' that came from downstairs," said Mr. Basin. "I went down to my kitchen with a cricket bat because I thought it might have been a burglar trying to break in."

The intruder turned out to be a manuscript. "It was there on the kitchen table, slightly singed and smoking gently."

The cover of the manuscript bore the title "Head In A Cracked Ass" written by none other than Griffin Basin. "I was confused," remarked Basin, "because, to my knowledge, I had never written a book of that name."

Tucked into the pages of the manuscript was a letter addressed to Mr. Basin. "All it said was, 'Dear Griffin, This is the book that will make you famous. Kind Regards, Griffin Basin.' It was dated 21st March, 2057."

It appears that the future Griffin Basin had sent the manuscript back through time to his younger self. "Naturally," stated Mr. Basin, "I was sceptical, so I had it checked out."

Basin sought out Professor Gufford of the Royal Institute of Science, a leading physicist in the field of physics. "Griffin came to me and explained the situation. I, too, was sceptical but also intrigued, so I decided to have the manuscript carbon dated."

An accurate result could not be ascertained. "We got through several dating machines before giving up," said Gufford. "They kept overloading and blowing up. I believe that the machines simply couldn't cope with the inherrent paradox of trying to put a date on something from the future."

The announcement today has taken the scientific and literary communities by storm. A bidding war for the novel has already broken out with Basin receiving offers of millions. "It's all rather exciting," he commented.

There are, however, repercussions for Griffin Basin. "Well, time travel is a complicated business and there is a danger that with this seminal event there could be serious issues regarding the space/time continuum," explains Dr. Gufford. "We will have to ensure that Mr. Basin's manuscript gets sent back in time, without fail, on the 21st March, 2057. If we fail to do so, then it could cause a time paradox that may distort the space/time continuum in totally unpredictable ways.”

"I've made a note in my diary," says Griffin Basin, "so that I don't forget."

With publishers falling over themselves to acquire the rights to the novel, this will indeed be the book that makes Griffin Basin famous and is expected to hit the bookshelves last month.

As we bask just beyond the cusp of the new millennium, Therapy has become the new Rock ‘n’ Roll. As our work-orientated society increasingly puts pressure on our stress levels and our ability to form meaningful relationships, our reliance on professional head doctors continues to escalate. Even our pets need therapy.

"Buildings, just like you and me, can be traumatised by bad events," says Dr. Ivan Strumpy, a former architect who returned to college to study psychology. Dr. Strumpy now makes his living as a therapist for buildings with emotional problems.

"Imagine a tower block, full of busy offices, peopled by stressed out office workers… that can take its toll on the well being of even the soundest structure," Strumpy garbles. "If you can help a building to come to terms with it’s negative feelings and become a happier place then that will obviously have a positive effect on the people who occupy the building. And their positive vibes will filter back into the structure. It is a natural and symbiotic cycle."

But work related stress is but the tip of the concrete iceberg for some buildings.

"After the incident, there was a tangible sense of trepidation around the place," exclaims Mr. Jerry Duckwade, a resident of the fashionable London suburb of Islington. Last year the Duckwade’s plush domicile was run over where it stood by a drunken driver-twat. "It was terrible," says Mrs. Daphne Duckwade. "We had to call in a specialist plasterer from Paris to touch up the brickwork."

The Duckwades were forced to call in Dr. Strumpy to help ease the house’s distress. "There was such an atmosphere about the house," expounds Mr. Duckwade. "Everybody could feel the tension. Daphne and I would argue constantly and we discovered that Joe, our youngest boy, had been smoking cannabis to deal with it. He would not have done that if the house had been of sound mind." Dr. Strumpy provided the Duckwades with a programme of relaxation techniques to pacify their house, which is said to be "coping admirably" with the post-traumatic treatment.

However, it is the case of Wayne Brasscock and his reign of terror that has brought the likes of Dr. Strumpy into the glare of public nosiness. During the piss-poor summer of 2000, Brasscock went on the rampage in Oxford, sexually abusing close to thirty premises, before being apprehended by the police.

"I heard a noise at about 5.00 in the morning," wibbles Deidre Bimble. "I put on my dressing gown and crept to the back door. I looked out of the window and saw him [Brasscock] kneeling by the drainage outlet. His trousers were around his ankles and he was grinding his hips back and forth and gasping."

"The houses that Brasscock abused were deeply affected by the violations," surmises Dr. Strumpy. "Many of them were living in fear, attempting to hide behind trees and post boxes. One house even tried to commit suicide by nurturing the spread of rising damp in the basement."

Not only did Brasscock brutally force himself onto the buildings but he also failed to use suitable protection.

"Nine months after the attack," rambles Prof. David Dongleday, "I felt what I thought was an earthquake. I go out to the back of the house only to discover a new conservatory that definitely had not been there the day before. It’s lovely to sit out there during the summer."

As our mental health continues to go increasingly pear-shaped, is it any wonder that our buildings are cracking up too?

"We must learn to care for our environment," warns Dr. Strumpy. "The places where we work, the places in which we live… They all need to treated kindly and taken care of, not only in terms of structural integrity and decoratively, but also emotionally."

If home is where the heart is, Strumpy concludes, be careful not to break it.

'I was terrified,' says Brit-Lit darling Nick Hornby. 'First they confused me with their intelligence and inspired ideas and then finished me off with their imaginative prose style. It was awful.'

Helen Fielding, bestselling author of the Bridget Jones' Diary novels was equally disturbed by her Canuck encounter. 'They continually bludgeoned me with all these weird concepts like "ingenuity", "humour" and "subtext". And just when I thought I was done for, they suggested that 20-something metropolitan nuerotics don't make worthwhile protaganists.'

Both Hornby and Feilding are now seeking psychiatric treatment at top celebrity headcase clinic, the Priory.

Top British publishers and self appointed media gurus have condemned the Canadian Writers. 'These people are quite clearly irresponcible and dangerous,' says some top publisher or other. 'The British literary establishment simply won't stand for these public outbursts of blatant creative talent. This kind of behaviour could seriously damage the bland and inoffensive mediocrity of British fiction.'

"I had been working late at the office and I decided to take a shortcut home through the park," relates Sophie Cranshaw. "It was late and it was beginning to get dark when the two men jumped me. One held me in an arm lock while the other threatened me with a baguette."

For many, a baguette is nothing more than a tasty snack, often eaten with cheese or cold meat and maybe a glass of wine. But for Miss Cranshaw a baguette represents a life threatening bread stick horror.

"I have a gluten allergy," Sophie explains necessarily. "Gluten is a protein found in grain cereals, so it means that I cannot eat things like bread, pasta or anything made from wheat and barley." That night in the park, Sophie gladly handed over her moolah. "If they had forced me to eat that baguette I could have suffered for days with stomach pains, diarrhoea, abdominal bloating… possibly worse."

And attacks on those with gluten allergies are on the increase, with many innocent people being threatened with raw spaghetti or boxes of Special K.

The problem has escalated with the recent murder of 28 year old Aled Pennyweather, who was fatally killed as he made his way home from a nightclub. Suffering from lactose intolerance, he was forced to drink eight pints of milk when he attempted to take on a gang of street youths who attempted to rob him. Then there is the case of Dabney Hotbed – who suffers from a nut allergy - who has been in a coma for six weeks after being force fed a bag of dry roasted by muggers.

There are further sinister undertones to these attacks. "These are not random crimes," blurts Detective Chief Inspector Haresprey. "These criminals have deliberately targeted those with specific allergies and are always armed with the correct foodstuff."

DCI Haresprey and his team have discovered a widespread black market of medical records. Criminals are paying underpaid and disgruntled medical staff large cash sums in return for the inside information on our personal allergies.

"The problem is large-scale," moans DCI Haresprey. "There is so much potential for underpaid hospital porters, nurses, doctor’s receptionists to get their hands on this sensitive information and selling it on to criminals that we could be facing a real battle to ensure that those with allergies remain safe on the streets."

So how can these nutritionally challenged members of the public protect themselves? The criminals pull out food, you pull out a carving knife… or maybe a blender.

"We were so thrilled when we found out that Tina was pregnant," says Jon. "We have wanted a pudding of our own for several years now."

"It was terrible," continues Tina. "All our friends had settled down and were raising desserts of their own. Going around to their houses for dinner parties was awful, seeing all the puddings laid out."

The couple were therefore overjoyed when they learnt the good news last autumn. "We couldn’t believe it," weeps Tina. "We would have been over the moon with a bakewell tart, but I think we were both secretly hoping that it would be a trifle."

Tina’s pregnancy appeared to progress smoothly until the moment arrived and she went into labour.

"The trifle had turned the wrong way," says Dr. Frederick Bunting. "We were forced to perform an emergency caesarean."

As Tina was rushed into surgery, Jon could only wait and pray. "I hoped that they could save our trifle, but the most important thing for me was not to lose my wife."

The procedure was successful. But when Tina came round from the anaesthetic the Berry’s received some shocking news.

"Once the trifle was removed we discovered that there were further complications," laments Dr. Bunting. "The newborn has defective apricot pieces."

The only hope for the baby trifle – named Elizabeth – is that she receive a fruit transplant.

"We obviously can’t just use any old apricot," says Dr. Bunting. "We have to be sure with any fruit transplant that the fruit is of the same juice group."

So now Tina and Jon Berry can only wait as the search for a donor gets under way.

"We have always dreamed of a pudding of our own," state the couple. "We have been so excited about the birth. We spent months converting the spare room into a nursery with teddy bear wallpaper, cuddly toys and a really big, comfy fridge."