22 February 2010
Somebody has been to the utility cupboard and dug out the Brilliant Torch.
The Brilliant Torch didn’t take its name from any epic fantasy-type sense, but got so named because its three different lightbulbs were more than enough to make an eight-year-old say ‘Brilliant!’.
They still make a twenty-eight-year-old say ‘Brilliant!’, if they’re lying around unexpectedly on the kitchen table.
The first bulb is a torch. An unflappable, straight-down-the-middle torch, the kind you’d want investigating a crime scene if these familiar walls suddenly turned sinister.
The second bulb is a fluorescent tube. Too large for the casing and oddly blue, never as bright as its size would lead you to expect. It still made the difference between entertainment and boredom overnight on an ill-judged, the only ill-judged, family camping trip.
The third bulb is a warning light, flashing off and orange. When you turn it on in the night-time kitchen, it looks as if the emergency services are attending on the bridge, coping with what the terminally selfish make them cope with there.
These must be new batteries, if the torch still works. The ones I remember leaving in there would be older than the government.
I flash the warning light around the kitchen and go to illuminate the cat.