Anne Dickens | The Day After Yesterday

It was 8am this morning and there I was minding my own business, trying to extricate a Polly Pocket from the toaster, when I heard a very loud knock at the door.

'Blimey,' I thought to myself, 'who the devil is that at such an ungodly hour?'

I made my way to the front door, and opened it (accompanied by Naughty George woofing vacuously) only to find fifteen Chinese men wearing shades standing there.

As you can imagine, it is rather unusual to find fifteen chaps on one's doorstep on a Thursday morning, let alone fifteen chaps of a specific ethnic origin. So I did what every self-respecting 'Daily Mail' reader* would do; I assumed that I had offended the Triad (ahh! There is nothing like a bit of gratuitous stereotyping). 

I looked at the head bloke nervously: "I think you have the wrong address," I stuttered.

He looked at me with a puzzled expression, "we have come to turn off your electricity," he said in a strong accent.

"Eh, what do you mean?" I asked.

"We are working on the power lines outside and need to turn off your electricity for safety reasons," he replied.



I sighed with relief - I hadn't unwittingly been a drugs mule on my last trip abroad: "How long will the power be off?" I queried as I showed him and four of his mates to my electricity meter.

"All day," he grinned, holding up two critical-looking wires, "I'll call you when we are ready to re-connect."

And so he left. And it was with grim realisation that I realised that I had no wi-fi, no hairdryer, and even worse, no kettle for cups of tea. It was diabolical.

But hey, I am as resourceful as a Sherpa behind enemy lines (except that I don't eat raw rabbits), so I telephoned Steve who lives in the village and asked if I could work at his house for the day. He reluctantly agreed, and within half an hour, I was drinking his tea and scoffing his biscuits. Marvellous.

At around 4pm, I got a call from the Electricity guy to say that they were ready to reconnect my house. I hotfooted it back through the village to find a similar scenario to the one that greeted me that morning; fifteen Chinese guys standing in my driveway. I have to say, it is rather disconcerting; my driveway isn't designed to hold crowds.

I let five of them into the house, and as they were beavering away with various wires, I asked them if the job had been successful. Indeed, the scale if their presence in the village indicated that the job had been approached with devastating efficiency.

"Yes," nodded one affable chap, "except for one minor incident that we have to report."

"What incident is that?" I asked with curiosity.

"We knocked the chimney off your neighbours house," he replied casually.

"Bloody hell!" I exclaimed, "was she [the neighbour] alright?"

"Oh yes," the chap nodded with a grin, "she was reading in her garden, and it missed her by a good foot."

"It's good, yes?" another chap interjected, also with a smile. 

"Errr, kind of," I replied.


So there you have it dahlink. Who says that living in the countryside isn't every bit as exciting as London? How is your week panning out?

* Note: I don't really read the Daily Mail. I would rather chop my own leg off with a rusty blade.

Tell me what you think by leaving me a comment otherwise your chimney will get knocked off by over-enthusiastic workmen.