Mostly, I’m pretty cool with the living alone and being all independent and self-reliant and shit. Every so often though something, usually to do with an electrical appliance, goes wrong and all of a sudden I’m on a chair screaming at the mouse on the floor. [Note for the slow: I can cope with the wee furry mousies, they’re cute.] Or possibly on a chair wondering why I remain that couple of inches too short to change the light bulb in the kitchen. Or looking at my DVD player in horror as it pokes its empty tongue out at me. The tongue upon which I had recently placed a DVD. A borrowed DVD. And I sit there and wonder about this cruel electrical conspiracy. Lest I sound paranoid, and I do, I’ve had appliances explode on me or merely die at a single look. I am like some creepy girl from a Stephen King novel when it comes to all things dryer. They don’t like me.
I’m pretty used to the betrayal of the light bulbs. They’re such whores. One day they love you and are happy to be switched on and off with gay abandon. The next it’s one flick and the fucker is deader than that mouse [again, not the furry variety] you’ve just thrown against the wall. The DVD player has shocked me. We had such a good relationship. We’ve laughed and cried, mostly over my use of the remote control, and had such lovely times. Now it’s sitting there smugly going ‘you won’t be using me for a long, long time, ya silly bint’. Damned but the machine is right. Knowing my inability to put things back the way I found them I am rather reluctant to unscrew her and dig about in her guts for a wayward disc. And so she’ll stay until I do, or find someone else to do, something about it.
This is one of those times that I feel rather helpless and slightly silly