Virginia Fallon

How to ignore life's little problems

Tuesday morning, the electrician is back. It’s 8am when he wanders up the path and into the house for the fourth time; we’re old friends now. “What’s happening?” he asks. “Nothing,” I say, flapping in the general direction of the walls, “the same thing.”

This same thing has been happening for some weeks, during which the house has taken to occasionally and inexplicably losing power in parts of the kitchen.

The first time it happened, I ignored it on the off-chance it might just fix itself. When it didn’t, I battled my way through the garage, spent a while looking through a box of photos, sorted some old clothes and found the hammer I needed last month.

Then I stood in front of the switchboard because that’s what I’ve seen people do when the power’s out, though what they’re looking for I know not.

Someone who does know lives just down the road, so I rang her. Mum came around, did something, sparks flew, I screamed, she said “bugger this” and rang someone else.

While the sparky couldn’t get here straight away, he recommended we figure out what was and wasn’t working.

Typically, what wasn’t working was everything I use, like the wi-fi, fridge and jug. Of course, the only thing working is the one thing I don’t – the oven.

But as luck would have it, the sockets next to my writing chair still worked. “Run extension cords,” said the sparky, so I did and everything was fine.

The next day, my son asked where the jug had got to. “It’s next to my chair,” I told him, “with the toaster.”

Also there was the phone charger, smoothie machine, laptop charger and wi-fi modem. The electrical problem hadn’t made life harder, it had done the opposite.

“You’re going to actually do something about this, eh?” said my son. “It’s not going to be like the mouse?”

Regular readers will know where this accusation stems from. For ages, I’ve been ignoring what started as a singular, then rapidly became a plural. I justify my inertia with arguments about their sparkling little eyes and sweet wee paws; their tenacity.

“Of course I will,” I said, reaching down to make a coffee, “the sparky’s coming.”

What I didn’t say was the sparky had already come, changed a fuse and told me to call if it blew again. When it did, I didn’t; just happily moved everything back to the chair and an easier life.

Next morning, the appliances were back in their original places. “I’ve reset the fuse,” said my son, in a tone insinuating I could have done it the day before.

“That was clever,” I said. “It wasn’t,” he said. “I wonder why it’s happening?” I said, really wondering whether a Lazy-boy in the kitchen would look insane.

Fortunately, the fuse blew again a few

days later. Unfortunately, I was bullied into doing something about it.

Back came the electrician, beginning a process of elimination to find the problem. With nothing apparent, he popped in another fuse, saying if this one blew he’d start looking inside the walls. “No hurry,” I said, leaning over the chair to flick the jug, “how do you take your tea?”

But eventually, the hurry came in the form of another appliance falling victim to the kitchen, and today the sparky has a new theory.

“Have you thought about mice?,” he says, looking suspiciously like someone who’s been told something by someone else.

“Of course,” I say, thinking of those sparkly little eyes and sweet wee paws; our tenacity.

“Ding!” says the microwave from next to the chair.