Waiting on the Sparky

I got up early this morning whilst Sparkling lay in bed and enjoyed a little longer sleep.  The electrician has been called because there's something up with the electrics.  Yesterday the downstairs lights, TV and slow cooker all failed.  They just stopped.  It was something to do with something called an RCD switch on the consumer board.  What this means I have no idea.  Fortunately at the time L & B man was here.  He had exhausted his name calling, "tart, slag" and "poofta" to name but a few and was about to start his breakfast.   Putting his grey cells to work, which must of been quite taxing he worked out it was all to do with the slow cooker plug.  A quick call to the local medically retired electrician man and he would come down to sort it out.  Sparkling said it would be at 9:30 this morning so I was the one who had to get up, while she got an extra 40 winks.  It don't matter, I managed to catch up on some good old fashioned TV.  The Champions and now The Saint.  The only time I get to chose what to watch is when both Sparkles and Rock are out of the picture.  Sleeping.  Except of course at a cost to my own shut eye.

So here I am still waiting on the Sparky.  I can't even say for sure he will turn up and it's gone 11:00 a.m. maybe his electric clock has stopped, or he's had a chance to catch up on some TV, I wouldn't blame him.  Except he could of come and and kept me company if that was his intention, I'd of made him a bacon sandwich.  We could of chatted about the 1960s and great TV.   Or the best way to wire a plug, not forgetting what on earth does RCD mean?  Rock has now emerged breakfast is a Cadbury's cream egg and she's a student of the fine culinary arts as well.  With a little luck I'll be able to get myself all cleaned up feel human, feel alive.  Then Sparkles can do her stint on waiting for the Sparky.  Who I am sure will not turn up today, we'll probably receive a phone call from him making an arrangement for another day or time.  Sparkling will get annoyed at the Sparky and wave her fists, probably at me and say "it's your fault."  Just as she did earlier in the week and said it was my fault the trees had carried on growing.  It didn't much matter how much I tried to say I had no control over their being trees and growing.  It was my fault.  In such circumstances I've found it necessary to agree and accept "my fault."  Then be told I had to do something about it.

OK better go and roll up my sleeves, some waiting washing-up has my name on it.  Not to mention some trees being looked at.