Outage Ennui

I’ve read a few books that speculate on the mundane apocalypse of the ‘we’re only three meals away from anarchy’ sort. The oil runs out or the gas lines from Siberia get cut, that sort of thing, the upshot being there is no heat, no power, no food and no water.

It would be pretty bloody, there’s no doubt. No fuel for the trucks, so just in time logistics would go out the window and the supermarket shelves would empty. No domestic power, so no fridges and freezers or microwaves and we’d have to break up the furniture to make a fire to keep warm. We wouldn’t even be able to do the ironing for goodness sake, or dry our hair properly.

The computers that control the water supply would be useless, but that wouldn’t matter because there would be no power to work the pumps that keep it flowing, so we’d be reduced to drinking from the garden water butt and flushing the toilet with bottles of Evian. Or maybe the other way round.

But by far the greatest threat to society and civil order would be the boredom which would hit us long before the hunger and thirst. as we found out today when the electricity suddenly went off for about four hours.

All those things you do to fill up the day suddenly weren’t there. Like phoning someone up to find out what the bloody hell was going on. But who? There are umpteen suppliers, but just one power line, so who takes the rap for fixing it? And how do you find out without the internet?

I did eventually through a crash course in using my daughter’s i-phone which she left behind while she is in South Africa, although it wasn’t a terrifically informative conversation — it will be fixed some time in the next twelve hours.

So there were four of us twiddling our collective thumbs. No internet to while away the idle moments, no tv or radio [note to self: stock up on batteries for times like this] and no cups of tea until we managed to dig out the camping stove amid all the junk in the garage.

We did fill some time chasing and catching flies to feed Sid the Abandoned Swallow, but even the thrill of the hunt palls after a while. [Sid’s doing well by the way and hopefully I’ll post a video of him soon.]

Fortunately the power returned we turned cannibal or started talking to footballs, like Tom Hanks in that castaway film, but it was a close run thing.

Image from LKillKira at Photobucket

Nobody’s prefect. If you find any spelling mistakes or other errors in this post, please let me know by highlighting the text and pressing Ctrl+Enter.

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