It has been an unusual sort of day.
As you know, of course Monday is Clean Sheets Day.
Very, very fortunately I had got the sheets out of the washing machine and neatly pegged outside to flap on the washing line when all of the electricity went off.
Regular readers will know that this is not exactly an unusual event. It happens with quite surprising regularity, the most surprising cause being the time when we found an enormous fat slug curled up inside the junction box.
I was mopping the conservatory at the time, and did not notice until the young people in the household came downstairs to observe that all of their lives had been switched off.
Obviously the first thing we did was to check the junction box, but to our mystification it appeared untroubled. All the switches were the right way up, and the all-important mains lever was very firmly turned to ON.
We switched everything on and off a few times, with no results whatsoever.
Oliver wondered if I had paid the bill, to which I asserted indignantly that I had, not disclosing that this had been my first point of concern as well. Obviously I know perfectly well that the electricity board will not cut you off without first sending you dozens and dozens of increasingly alarming letters, but of course there is always a small guilty voice somewhere at the back of my thoughts wondering if perhaps I had been more dysfunctional than I had fondly imagined.
A quick trip to the holiday house next door determined that their electricity was working perfectly well, thank you, and our other next door neighbour was out, so I put on my best middle-class concerned voice, not an irate one in case it was actually my fault somewhere along the line, and telephoned the electricity board.
After I had told them my name, address, email address, date of birth, maiden name, name of my first pet, and the first school I attended, the electricity board conceded that there was a power cut, probably just to our house, since all the neighbours seemed to be perfectly all right, and loftily gave me a website address to check.
Fortunately I have got a laptop which had been charged, so I was not dependent on my darkened computer, sitting uselessly on the desk.
The website said that the electricity would be back on by ten o’clock tonight.
We do not use the electricity as much as people with electric heating and cars, but we still use it a very, very lot, and I squeaked in horror.
Oliver and Emily promptly made arrangements to go out for dinner.
I would not be able to microwave a burrito to take with me in the taxi, and contemplated sandwiches, gloomily.
I went back to my mopping, now consumed with my troubles. The towels were still in the washing machine, where they had collapsed into a motionless limp puddle, and the reason for the mopping in any case was that some wretched dog, actually Roger Poopy, had been copiously and revoltingly sick, all over their bed and under the table.
It looked like a large, and disgustingly runny cow pat, which is probably what it had been in the first place.
I wanted to wash the dog bed and the assortment of vile-smelling blankets therein, but was powerless to do so.
I quite liked that last sentence, what a handy double purpose for the word.
I dumped the lot out in the yard and carried on cleaning up.
I thought, with a small pang of happiness, that I would have a completely robust excuse for not hoovering the bedrooms. This disappeared when Oliver pointed out that we have a cordless hoover, fully charged, under the stairs, with a spare battery, also fully charged.
I was downcast at the recollection, but at least it meant I did not have hoovering to look forward to tomorrow.
I cleaned and hoovered, and occasionally checked the light switches, hopefully. Several times the microwave pinged, and the electricity returned with a promising flash, only to fade to depressing darkness again a couple of moments later.
Eventually I noticed two teenagers in orange overalls, kneeling and fiddling about in a hole next to the front gate, so I went out to be an irritating old lady.
They thought I was an irritating old lady but eventually assured me that the electricity would be coming back on Any Minute Now.
Indeed, they were telling the truth.
I hovered about, irritatingly, until everything flashed back into life and the house’s reassuring hum could be heard once again, and then dashed inside to inspect the washing machine.
It took ages and ages to finish.
It was almost six o’clock before I managed to get the towels hung on the line.
I hope they dry before my shower tonight.
The dog bed won’t be.
That is Roger Poopy’s fault.
