There’s nothing quite like the moment a machine fails.
A click followed by silence.
The knee-jerk reaction that it’s something you have done.
Flat battery because you left the passenger light on all night. You blew a fuse. You didn’t wire up the tele right. Never is it the machine.
We had a power cut this morning. Monday, 7am, alarm screaming, I reach for the bedside lamp and nothing. I switch again and again and again and nothing.
It’s an old lamp, a vintage sixties thing with a dodgy foreign plug, I bought it at a carboot. It must be the lamp.
But no, I reach for the main switch and nothing. Some daft bugger’s tripped the switch. I go through the freezing house, floor by floor trying every damn switch, looking for the fuse boxes and nothing but silence. Really cold silence.
It is of course quite simply a power cut. By candle light I dress. By candle light I make toast (grill not toaster) and coffee (stove coffee pot and not cafetiere). I drink my coffee and eat my toast watching the garden wake through my French windows. No radio, no bright lights, no looking at emails or morning news whilst I breakfast. Me, the windows, the garden, some birds, a squirrel and the dawn.
When I return at 5pm there is still no power. I decide to go to the local library. As I ride up to it I change my mind and decide to go to a cafe. Again I change my mind and go to the pub, (inevitable), where I write this. My pinot grigio is delicious and the landlord charming. An open fire roars next to me.
Power cuts aren’t so bad after all. And they’re absolutely free.
