Monday, 20 May 2013

Power Cut

We're in the midst of a power cut. Well, I say 'we' but that's very much a collective 'me on my own plus unknown muffled voices down the street, presumably talking about the Blitz and having to fetch water from a tap in the street and how you don't get summers like you used to do you no you don't'.

I am in the midst of a power cut. There are unknown voices not far from here who are of no use to me. It is strange being in a power cut. At first it was exciting as I was working from home (and actually working) when I noticed first the wifi dropping then my laptop informing me I had 75 minutes of charge remaining. I flicked on the light. And there was no light. I flicked on another, thinking perhaps the first's bulb had blown. And there was no light. I immediately abandoned my laptop, thinking it better to conserve the 72 minutes of energy for later. Perhaps I would need to play an emergency game of Minesweeper.

Panicking slightly, I quickly had to think what to do. Within seconds I had the loft ladder down and ascertained that the loft light too was not working. How many beers do I have? One. Better save it. Seconds later a bag of clothes I'd been promising to put in the loft for ages was not only in the dark loft but making space for something else. I was on a roll.

Suddenly I was Will Smith, possibly in that film where everyone and everything apart from a dog is dead. I thought, what would Will Smith do? He'd call Uncle Phil. I tried to call Uncle Phil but the phones are powered by electricity and therefore down too. I could use my mobile but I've only got 35% battery remaining and besides, I don't have Uncle Phil's number. Thanks for nothing, Will Smith.

Turning up a panicky notch and by now sporting a bandana, I rolled up the blow up bed, sheathed it and powered it into the loft next to the bag of clothes. Have some of that, chores list.

Suddenly in a flash of inspiration, I tore my t-shirt from my torso and seductively stripped the bed. Right. Down. To. The. Bare. Mattress. Ooooh. La. Laaaaaaa thinks the female readership (and some of the males who are that way inclined or who think mattresses are feminine).

I wrestled the mattress to the floor. Oof. I un-screwed her base. Blimey. I removed her drawers. Matron. And I took her bottom into another room before caressing her top in the same direction. Ach jaaa. Almost entirely spent, I reassembled Ethel (it seems only fair to name her, having spent a full fifteen minutes being so intimate) and set about dressing her in the finest Egyptian cotton; are you trying to seduce me Mrs Skinner? Would you like me to seduce you?

Now that the game of Musical-less Beds is over, I am at a loss of what to do. It is very eerie. The birds are singing louder than usual. They know something. There are no planes overhead. Did the birds do this? I've seen Hitchcock's Birds. They're not very scary. But these ones are. They're probably led by a swan. A killer swan. A killer swan that wants my one remaining beer. Probably as a refreshment after breaking both my arms. One. By. One. before leaving me to fend for myself and ultimately dying before the century is out.

I hate swans. I've tried to warn the world but who would listen? Barely anyone. My warnings were so magnanimously ignored that I began to question my own sanity. I even tried befriending two - Sylvia and Sandra - just a month ago yet now it is clear that they were just intelligence gathering, mockingly pretending to enjoy my stale loaves while planning on killing me before sharing my one remaining beer.

Maybe I should go to the pub and sit this one out with others who are pondering what to do while all around them crumbles?

This is the end, my friend. The end.

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