Sunday, 16 October 2011


On Wednesday, I was having lunch, and told myself I would put the computer on at 1, and begin my writing.  At five to one, the power blew.  I was angrier than a bull at a dog.  It seemed so personal!

There had been an explosion at a local substation, and 30, 000 homes lost their I can hardly count myself as special.  Frustrated, I stomped around grumpily for a while.  My husband, who thrives on crises of any magnitude, observed cheerfully that Roald Dahl wrote on yellow paper with a pencil.

The power cut lasted nearly twenty-four hours, and soon the inconvenience of trying to bath and wash up and medicate ill children overcame the annoyance of missing my writing time.  We have electric again now; it's a little hit and miss, as I think we've been on generators, and may still be, for all I know.  It gave me a few special moments, and a few ideas for stories.  After a while I realised it might have blown after I'd been writing for an hour.  Perhaps it was better timed than it seemed at first.

And tomorrow is another day.

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