So it finally happened
to me …
After seven-ish years
in Lebanon, I got stuck in an elevator during a power cut. It was coming; I’d
ridden my luck for too long.
It was a couple of
nights ago as I was coming home after dinner with my friends and a few
après-food drinks (digestifs certainly isn’t the right word, far too
sophisticated).
I’d timed it to
perfection, I had ten minutes until the cut, or so I thought.
Now, my apartment
block is (much to my shame, as it looks like some sort of festive bordello) the
only one on the street yet to take down our Christmas lights, so a twinkling
Santa assured me that there was power as I hurriedly hit the button for the
second floor. Two seconds later, “Thump”. No. No. This doesn’t happen to me.
OK. Damn. Wait. Beseech anyone who’ll listen. Hit the button again. No. Santa’s
dead. There’s no kahraba.
 |
| And I wonder why my generator bills are so high... |
Pic from here.
So, after I had
reflected on my stupidity at ignoring my own rules (No.’s 2 and 29),
and wishing I hadn’t had that final cigarette, I soon wondered how to entertain
myself. After contemplating the answer to the ultimate question of life, the
universe and everything (contrary to what Douglas Adams will tell you, the
answer’s cabbage and not 42), I was at a loss as
to what to do.
But, I had my phone and thus 3G. While going through Google Reader I
rapidly discovered that web comics, even the brilliant Happle Tea, get a tad tiresome when you’re sitting on your bag
on the floor of an elevator underneath a shadowy effigy of the supposedly
jolliest man on the planet. It occurred to me at that point how similar the
names Santa and Satan are.
 |
| "Now, what have I got in my sack for you little Timmy?" |
Pic from here.
After flicking through any number of websites and listening to Britney’s
greatest hits (… Baby One More Time stands the test of time), I resorted to
having a chat with Siri, Apple’s much-maligned personal assistant. Now, Siri’s
a wonderful thing, can do all sorts of useful tasks, but a brilliant
conversationalist, she, or in my case, he, isn’t. Asked what he thought of
Google, he just said he “Thought different”.
He wouldn’t comment on Katy Perry’s divorce (yes, my time on the Internet had
been well spent). When I asked him to “open the pod bay doors”, he became somewhat depressed and first bemoaned the fate of electronic personal
assistants post-HAL 9000 and then threatened to report me to his union. When I
told him I hated him he apologized and said he’d endeavour to do better in the
future, before darkly promising to remember what I’d said. I gave up when he
became confused, and somewhat defensive, over the issue of his gender. I expect
to be found dead shortly, my iPhone having wedged itself in my brain.
 |
| The mark of the Devil. |
Pic from here.
After several drawn
games of noughts and crosses (tic-tac-toe to the heathens) I finally felt
myself drifting off to sleep. No sooner had my chin hit my chest than the power
came on. Springing gazelle-like (*ahem*)
to the buttons and slamming my hand onto the nearest one, I muttered a
quick prayer to whichever deity happened to be awake at the time, and finally
arrived at my floor.
In bed I lay reflecting
on a lucky escape. For some reason the power had only cut for around an hour.
Not bad. Mental note: must remember Rule No.’s 2 and 29 in future. Falling
asleep, the power cut again, the UPS went off, resulting in incessant, demonic
wailing. Getting up to turn it off I released that my media centre was turned
on. But I couldn’t turn on the TV to shut it down as I have a budget UPS that’d
keel over dead at the thought of powering my old plasma screen. Sleepless in
Beirut. Again.
Électricité du Liban, I hate you.
