So, the electricity’s gone and all I can do is sit and read a book. And also listen to silence. It’s that kind of silence writers love to write about, a screeching silence that’s like an ice pick in the ear, like a cat giving birth, like someone else’s nails along a chalk board, like deathly silence. The kind of silence that frustrates the listener into running around the house naked, screaming and punching and kicking the air.
But I sit and wait, resisting the urge to just rip my clothes off, and I read a book. Well, my eyes are pointed at the book but I don’t actually scan the words or pay attention to the meaning. I am perched upon a couch, tense, and the book is on my lap, pages flapping about unattended. I have the light switch flicked to ‘on’ so when they the electricity comes back on, the room will turn a little orange from electric light. Just so I will know the very second it’s back.
But I need not have worried; as the house almost screamed when fresh electricity was pumped back into the system. The fridge clicked back on and hummed. The slight clicks of lights sounded, orange mixing with natural light. TV’s squawked and flickered a multi-coloured light show, the morning news anchors handling piping hot gossip. The phone ‘bringed’ and my stereo sang some sexy tunes to me. Now is a time to celebrate, rejoice in the most noble of all Gods gifts, electricity back and here to stay.