Jonny McCambridge: Seven sodden days: Living through the wettest January in 149 years

I descend the stairs and discover it is the latter. I stuff an old rag in the letterbox to stop it being buffeted by the gale force winds and disturbing those who sleep more deeply than I.

I return to bed but the comfy spot has gone. Instead, I listen to the howling wind making the windows rattle in their frames and the driving rain which is mercilessly beating against the front of my home.

I try to remember the last time it was not raining, but find the memory is beyond me. I consider waking my wife to ask her when we last had a dry day, but I don't think she would appreciate it.

I check my phone. There is a message from my son's school advising that it is to close for the day. He can have a lie in. I am a bit grumpy about this as there is no such luxury for journalists. I hear a clattering sound coming from the direction of my back garden but I am not curious enough to drag myself from the bed again. I pull the covers over my head.

Wednesday: I am stirred from my rest in the early hours (again) by the sound of my mobile buzzing.

I consider it unlikely that a friend or family member is contacting me before 4am, so I assume it is a work message. My wife is still half-asleep but is protesting at the unwelcome intrusion.

I know I will not be able to rest until I check the message. It could be a big story such as a notification of an attempt to set the world record for baking the world's biggest cookie in Clough or an alert that an asteroid has landed in Stranocum. Instead, my phone is telling me that a new weather warning has just come into force.

It says: "Yellow weather warning issued. Ice across much of Northern Ireland.”

I rub the sleep from my eyes.

“At least it's not rain,” I mumble into the darkness.

A little later, my phone buzzes again. It is yet another weather notification.

“Yellow weather warning issued. Further rain across Northern Ireland falling on already saturated ground.”

Thursday: There is a river which runs under a road close to my home. In normal times, there are fields on either side of the stream, and a few businesses - a car wash, a paint shop and a van which sells burgers and filled sodas.

I am driving past the river when I stop for a closer look. In recent years, it has not been unusual to see the water burst its banks, but I've never seen anything like this. There is no river to be seen, no fields any more. It has all been replaced by what appears to be a huge lake or reservoir. The expanse of water stretches for as far as I can see.

I have to remind myself that this is supposed to be dry land. I take some pictures of the water rising up the side of a telegraph pole in what was once a field.

Friday: It is raining again. Not the torrential downpour from earlier in the week, but a steady, incessant drizzle. There is a sense of permanence to this type of rain.

I decide to work from home, giving me a constant view of the rising water in the fields. The rain continues throughout the morning and long into the afternoon. I run out of energy long before the tempest.

During the day I see an unfamiliar van in the street. I go outside. Workmen are trying to clear debris from the gullies so the water can drain away. There is a huge puddle at the end of the street and I can no longer make out the white lines on the road.

Saturday: I start the day by checking to see if there are any parkruns cancelled. It is to be my son's 25th run and I want to make sure he does not miss out. Most of the events are going ahead, although I do find a notification of one in Belfast which has been stopped due to "part of the course being underwater".

Unfortunately, I am not able to run with my son as I am working again. Later in the morning I am standing outside a Belfast hotel waiting to capture footage of the new Ulster Unionist Party leader arriving. All of the talk among the huddle of journalists is about the weather. I note it is not so bad today, but don't want to say it out loud.

“At least it's not raining,” one of the cameramen unwisely remarks.

Within minutes, a sharp shower arrives, sending us scurrying for shelter and umbrellas.

Sunday: It is raining in the morning. I go outside in my bedroom slippers to dump rubbish in the bin, but almost immediately the dampness penetrates into my socks and soles and I squelch miserably back towards the house.

Later in the day, however, the weather seems to improve. We manage to get out of the house to go for a walk and it is undeniable that there is a warmer feel to the air and the sun is gamely struggling to fight its way through the clouds. If I didn't know better, I would say there is almost a nascent feeling of spring promise. My phone tells me there is a warning of ice for Monday.

Monday: It is not raining when I rise for work, although Geoff on the radio says there may be showers later. He also mentions that a more settled period of weather could be on the way. Dare I hope?

I receive a phone notification informing me Northern Ireland has endured its wettest January in 149 years.