Feminists should look away now.
Don't say I didn't warn you.
I am so proud of myself this morning: I have changed a fuse! Look, I've always had someone there to do it for me and, as they say, why keep a dog and bark yourself? (No, Harvey, I'm not talking to or about you.)
Husband hadn't long set off for Winchester when the lights in the kitchen and study went. (Only half the kitchen went, and the hall, which is between kitchen and study was okay; our circuitry is a mystery with very little logic to it, it seems to me.)
I emailed Husband asking him to phone me.
Some time later he called and gave me instructions:
Go out to the shed. Get the ladder out. Move the mower. Stand the ladder up so you can reach the fuse box. Put the switch to the OFF position. Pull out the two white fuses. It is one of those. Replace the wire running through them. Find the fuse wire. It is either in the kitchen or in the second drawer in the shed. No, not the second drawer in the cupboard, the second drawer counting the drawer that is above it. I've got to go to a meeting now.
It took me a while - and a little cursing under my breath - to find the fuse wire. Then it took longer again to find a screwdriver. It took even longer than both those combined to try to thread a titchy piece of wire through the fuse. The only thing it didn't take me long to do, unusually, was find my glasses.
The window men arrived just as I was struggling with my second fuse, the first change having made no difference. I wanted to do it without help. I rushed while they carried stuff in. I really didn't want to have to admit defeat.
Yes! I did it!
I am a genius.
I don't think I'll take up electrical work though. There is far too much - like life and death - depending on one thin piece of wire.