In which our intrepid hero wishes he could fumble around for a lamp to strap to his head.

This morning, when I came into the office, the power was out. We’re moving sometime in the next week, and the insides of our building are being gutted, a floor at a time. This week, they’re taking apart our floor.

Once I finally managed to get the power put back on to our office (minus my side of the main room; an extension lead powers my computer), I became aware of just how bizarre and surreal work is becoming. The lobby and everything else—apart, I presume, from our office and the one downstairs—is completely without electricity.

If I walk out of our door into the lift lobby on our floor, everything is pitch black. The lifts aren’t working properly, so you sometimes have to take the fire stairs, Zippo in hand. It can be a bit spooky.

Every so often, there’s a loud crash from the office next door, where workers are demolishing the interior. And then there’ll be a pause, whereupon one of them wheels a plastic mini-skip bin into the lift to cart the debris away.

It’s a bit like doing a desk job at the bottom of a coal mine. Now that the people in the office downstairs have gone home, we’re the sole point of light in seven storeys of darkness.

Which reflects my mood pretty accurately; I’m in one of the blackest moods in years. I just want to get drunk, pass out and not wake up for, oh, maybe three or four centuries. I’m exhausted, overwrought and alienated. I need a holiday, but I don’t feel like going anywhere. Least of all, home.

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