Bliss

I should have realised the minute I came home. I should have got it straight away.

I should have got it from the way the cats sat looking at me, ever so slightly freaked out.

I should have got it from the darkness in the utility room and the silence in the kitchen.

I definitely should have got it from the way Husband's Grandad's clock ticked so smugly, and so loudly.

We have a powercut.

The automated robot-woman message on the electricity supplier's line says the power has been out since 12.30, and "should be restored at... as soon as possible."

Now, you're probaly clicking your tongue in sympathy and frowning in concern. No, no! Don't worry.

As soon as I did get it, a sense of illicit glee stole over me. I dumped the shopping that I couldn't put away in the freezer on the kitchen counter. I ignored the computer that wouldn't turn on anyway. I fed the cats by touch and memory in the darkened utility room. I poured a martini rosso and lemonade, plated a cream cake I treated myself to, and slipped outside with Beth's latest.

The birds are going crazy, bidding for the air while they have no competition. The cows are understandably voicing their concern at their non-milking milking machine. But that's it.

No TV. No radio. No hum of fridge and freezer, boiler and pump.

I'm sitting here in the front garden, writing this longhand for later, and I feel like a kid playing hooky.

Absolute bliss.

(Don't worry. The power's back on now.)