The cupboard under the stairs

At approximately half past seven on Wednesday night our lights went out. The washing machine stopped. The shower switched off. The news reader blinked into blackness on the television screen. It was Scotland Today and as I was watching it in my usual engrossed state it took me at least a few moments to register there was no longer an image on my screen. It wasn't all bad then. Fortunately the cooker hobs being electric continued to cook but only till the hobs cooled. The food was just about cooked with only a mild chance of poisoning, thusly edible, so we were not going to starve.
Raking through our cupboards we brought out the artillery. These were to last the night. Four tealight candles, one long dusty candle from a previous flat owner (which burnt down rather quickly - Wee Willie Winky would have had no chance!) and one big fancy, thick candle complete with vanilla scent and twig decor. This was no ordinary candle, however, as it was an M&S candle. A tenner M&S voucher from a Wedding present well spent. A stinky candle, it's wax embedded with twigs. I don't know - women...
Anyway, immediate thoughts had it all down to another pesky power cut but on going out into the close and inspecting the neighbours front windows I realised it was no power cut. Only our flat was out. Denying the fact that we had been cut off I immediately phoned ScottishPower and politely enquired as to who had turned out all the lights.
The ScottishPower lady on the other end of the phone hummed, and then hawed and then asked if I had flicked any switches in any of the power boxes. The answer was, of course, no. A very deliberate no. Why would I do this, I thought? And if I had done, would the shrieks from the bathroom and the sudden lack of light not spur me to hurriedly reflick the said switch?
It was during this call that I realised I had no idea where our fuse box is. Every household has one. Every household owner knows where it is. Except me. As I frowned down the phone at the call centre lady, trying to fathom up an image of the flat's fuse box in my head, trying to think where it could be she then asked the question that really made me feel stupid.
"Your Dad should know where it is. Is your Dad home?".
Sighing and rolling my eyes, I again gave her a negative response. The reason I have no idea where the fuse box is, is not down to youth but only stupidity and ignorance. I must have a young voice over the phone. I wasn't aware of this. I did not know whether to be flattered or insulted. The call centre then helpfully informed us a maintenance man would be round between eight and eleven, sounded almost as exasperated as I was.
As it turned out the fuse box is situated in a cupboard under the stairs out in the close. This cupboard was locked by the council many years ago and the key seemingly swallowed by the lock fitter that did it. The ScottishPower maintenance man arrived at ten to eleven, realised he couldn't get in and left me with a number for the Council, whose services we would need to call on. The Council emergency hotline was decidedly cool as we got a bloke, audibly shrugging. He did, however, send a joiner out to help us open the door. It just so happened that this joiner arrived as the Scottish Power man was leaving our street to go on to his next call so our little problem was swiftly sorted out by the Council joiner breaking the door open with a crowbar. Disappointingly there were no zombie like people under the stairs, cellars of gold or little boy wizards hiding out from ugly relatives. Only a large fuse box. So the Scottish Power maintenance man pulled on his giant rubber gloves and our power was back on by five to midnight.
Before this, whilst we were still in darkness, my Dad had phoned up asking how we were doing. He tried to help over the phone whilst watching the footie in his power lit house. He then asked if we had enough candles. We had blown out the M&S candle considering it too good to waste, (I think I was getting high on the vanilla goodness) so I told him we had four tealight candles to last the night. He seemed to pause, took a moment and then repeated.
"Fork handles? For-k handles?"
Yes, Dad. The old ones are the best.