Blowing a fuse

Last night, when I turned on the bedside lamp, the bulb when Phfutt! And the radio died, the DVD wouldn’t go, the computer became silent and black, and my animated picture of the Queen Mum ground to the same restful halt that the old dear herself has now assumed. Well, my picture would have, if I’d had one.

I had blown a fuse.

Well, actually, I hadn’t blown a fuse. I don’t have any fuses, short or otherwise. A fuse had blown in the flat’s fusebox. All because a bulb had blown. I obviously have sympathetic fuses in my flat.

So, outside I went into the rain, looking for the fusebox.

Now you may dismiss this venture out into inclement weather as something trifling, but *you* aren’t bald (I hope). Bald people suffer in the rain. We have no hair to reduce the violent battering of raindrops on the noggin. When we go out in the rain, we are incessantly beaten over the head by vicious drops of water. It’s terrible, I tell you. I need comfort!

And I’ll bet that you thought that the worst thing about being bald is that you don’t get to choose designer combs. Although you do have more room for designer tattoos.

Anyway, search as I may while being viciously assaulted by the rain, I couldn’t find the fusebox. So I came back inside again. It was then that I noticed that the clock on the stove was still working. There was power to the stove - and the stove had two power-points on it! So all last night my computer was plugged into the stove. No comments, please, about half baked ideas.

This morning, my power problem is over. In the cold light of day, I found the fuse box. It is inside, for Pete's sake. One expects fuse boxes to be outside on the wall.

So I opened the fuse box door, pushed in the popped-up button on the fuse, and Hey Presto! I can once again recharge vibrators, heat up the electric blanket, play soft and seductive music, and all the others things a bachelor must do to keep his lady friends happy.

Aren’t I clever? Maybe I should get a job as an electrician.

Or maybe I should get a job photographing pieces of paper.

Yesterday, I was in the local courthouse filing some papers with the disputes tribunal when this lady came in from a collection agency. She was given a big folder of court papers (I gather they were court decisions on debts) and promptly set up a small photographic studio (tripod and all) on a nearby public counter. Then she started photographing each piece of paper.

Apparently, she goes around the courthouses from Masterton up to Taupo taking these photographs of pieces of paper.

Well, I suppose it's better than trying to lug a photocopier around with you...