Blackout

It was a typical Saturday evening in the South Hobart house: food, wine, chocolate, tea, a movie (The Secret Life of Walter Mitty), some channel surfing leading to The Fugitive. One housemate had gone to bed, leaving just two to witness the dramatic events that would close an otherwise undramatic evening.

The credits were rolling, it was past midnight, and we were trying hard to leave the comfort of the sofa for our beds. Without warning the lights flickered once, twice, and the house plunged into darkness. The movie credits were transmitted unseen to a blank tv, the heater ceased its warm exhalations. The only sound was of two girls gasping, laughing, and then a lonely alarm rang in the outside distance.

If ever there was a sign to go to bed, that would be it. With phones held high, we stumbled to our rooms. Torches were found, candles were lit, but before long the house had subsided into silent darkness once again.