I got up this morning, did my usual routines and then sat back and waited for the kettle to boil.
Now this is a serious issue as a mug of tea is essential to the start of any day and ensures good moods and smooth transition from a state of doziness to a state of alertness.
Then I realised – no electricity. Fuck!
Electricity is something that people don’t tend to notice much unless there isn’t any. And to make matters worse it a prerequisite for just about everything in this house. The heating won’t work without it, and probably the most important thing is that I can’t cook or boil a kettle. There are also trivial matters like no Interwebs or even a landline phone service.
Of course Herself started hollering for me to switch on the fucking heating before she fucking freezes her fucking balls off, or words to that effect, and that she wouldn’t get out of the fucking bed until I did. I pointed out that she would have to do without as there was no juice. She said that it was fucking freezing in the fucking bedroom and it must be way below fucking freezing and what was the fucking temperature [or words to that effect]? There happens to be a thermometer in the bedroom and I told her it said sixteen degrees. “Minus sixteen!” she hollered. “No, plus sixteen,” says I. “The fucking thing is broken” she shouted [or words to that effect].
Anyways I left her to it, as she piled on clothing and wrapped herself in quilts, and I went back to the kitchen. Still no power. I hauled out the old gas camping stove and set it up on the kitchen table. I filled a saucepan with water and lit the stove. The smell of gas was overpowering. I reckoned that as it was well over forty years old, the pipes had probably perished and were leaking gas like an incontinent whore. So now I had a bit of a problem – would I run the risk of demolishing the house, or forgo my mug of tea. Tea won. I decided to leave the room in case there was an explosion.
About ten minutes later I peered around the door and sure enough, the water was boiling merrily. I covered my mouth with a damp cloth and dashed in to switch off the gas. At least the tea was sorted.
It was blowing a bit of a breeze outside [they named it Doris, in the modern touchy feely way they do these days] so I reckoned the power wouldn’t be back on for a while. I lit a fire in the old sittingroom, as it happens to have a fireplace. I’m not daft – I don’t light fires indoors if there isn’t a fireplace. I settled back to enjoy my mug of now lukewarm tea and read a book.
Immediately the fucking power came back on.
That always happens. Any time I accept my lot and make alternative arrangements they go and fix things. Having run the risk of explosions and having lugged sacks of turf and coal around the place, not to mention running the gauntlet of Herself in a bad mood, they go and make all my labours redundant. Damned inconsiderate I call it.
Time for a fresh mug.