We’re doing our bit to share the sudden, ten year old, energy crisis. We’re turning the lights off to keep the lights on. We stumble around in the dark, with no heating, cold and frightened like old people should be.

We had friends staying over the long weekend and in the dark I went to bed in the wrong room. We’d been drinking for hours. I was surprised to find Robinson suddenly had a penis.

I fled, frightened like old people should be.

We can’t find our black ipads or phones in the dark. As a result of this daily blackout we’re at least a day behind in the news. Something about Rebel Wilson? And apparently the Socceroos got through to the World Cup this morning. Or maybe it was last night.

We’re in a twilight zone, waking with the sun, toiling hard, and then going to a shivering bed just after dusk. Nina has taken to sleeping on the bed but that’s cold comfort.

There’s not enough sunlight hours in the day to dry the washing or thaw the roast. We do neither.

We’re at the whim and wham of the broken market.

Years ago in old South Wales I remember Robinson’s mother spent more money on fuel to warm her bungalow than she spent on food. Here we are in New South Wales doing the same thing.

I can’t tell if that’s red or white in the gloom.

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