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 power....so 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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