My life has become one, long lightbulb moment. And not in a good way. It seems that, every time I switch on a lamp, there is a tiny explosion. A ‘poof’ as it were. Oh God. ANOTHER ONE? If buses come in threes, then lightbulbs blow in… thousands. It feels like a hate campaign. Knee deep in tax returns, clothes I haven’t worn in decades and… regret. Well, none of that is a surprise. But little did I think my life would be taken over by wrapping dead bulbs in plastic bags, popping them into my handbag and heading to the shop to say, “Can I have the same again please? But a soft light. A low wattage.” Because God forbid I should ever know the type of bulb I need off by heart.
Then I have to insert the thing. Always wondering if it will shatter in my hand as I press it home; always wondering if I left the lamp switched on or off; always too lazy to bend down and switch it off at the mains. My version of living dangerously.
Lightbulb duly replaced and… still nothing. Oh Jesus, it must be the fuse. I hate that I even know about fuses but I changed two only last night. Back to the shop. “Fuse please.” Obviously I can’t find the toolbox so I commandeer a spoon. And then I do the unscrewing, remove the tiny fuse and insert the… wait a minute. Which tiny fuse on the floor in front of me is the knackered one and which tiny fuse is the fresh one? Have I lost you yet? I’ve clearly lost something. MY MIND?