Suddenly one late evening our lights started to flicker and our electric hob began to beep randomly. Our neighbours, too, were experiencing spooky goings on. With Halloween approaching, we thought it might be a message from the other side. Well, our small cottage is over 170 years old and some poor soul is bound to have kicked the proverbial at some point in the past. Instead of chasing ghosts by rolling out the Ouija board, a saner mind prevailed: Liam contacted the UK Power Networks – the fancy new name for the National Grid.
Engineers were on the case in less than an hour – climbing poles and checking cables. It turned out to be a fault in an underground line running beneath a neighbouring front garden. Nothing more could be done that evening and so, as a safety precaution, our electricity was cut off. Out came the candles, on went the transistor radio. Early the following morning, a lorry-load of strapping lads in hi-vis vests descended upon us, their power tools cocked and loaded.
While they got down to business on the fault, we were wired up to a bloody great generator on wheels parked outside. “Is that cardamom I can smell?” asked the sexy sparky as he poked cables through our cat flap and up through our coffin hatch to the fuse box. Now there’s a man with a keen nose, I thought.
The faulty power line was repaired by nightfall. Job done. Here’s one of the sparks and his dancing feet disconnecting us from the generator before plugging us back into the mains. A fella happy in his work.
We can’t fault the fault fixers. A tip-top service from the big boys with their big toys, can-do attitude and ever-friendly smiles. Thank you.
