When the room went dark, she heard her name

When the room went dark, she heard her name, 

“Maggie…” 

It wasn’t a whisper. It was a groan. A long, drawn-out, soul-weary groan that sounded like it had travelled through three layers of plasterboard, a family of mice, and a lifetime of regret. 

Maggie froze. Not because she was frightened, although the sudden blackout had sent her tea sloshing across the arm of the sofa, but because she knew exactly what that groan meant. 

Ted had been doing DIY again! 

There were few certainties in life: death, taxes, and Ted’s unshakeable belief that he could fix anything armed with enthusiasm, a  big hammer, mastic, and misplaced confidence. 

She fumbled for her phone and found the torch app and followed the trail of chaos. 

A toppled stepladder. A suspiciously warm drill. A copy of DIY for Dummies open to a page titled “How Not to Electrocute Yourself.” and finally, Ted himself—half-emerged from the airing cupboard, covered in cobwebs and soot, blinking like a mole who’d just discovered daylight. 

“I was just tightening the—” he began. 

“No,” Maggie said, holding up a hand. “Don’t finish that sentence. I know how it ends. “I was just tightening the thingy and then the house exploded.” 

“It didn’t explode,” Ted said defensively, brushing dust from his red T shirt. “It… flickered.” 

“Ted, the lights went out.” 

“Momentarily.” exclaimed Ted. 

“The kettle screamed with thermal shock and Alexa tried to order a defibrillator.” replied Maggie. 

Ted frowned, a little hurt.  

Maggie sighed and helped him out of the hole he was in, physically and metaphorically. This was the third incident this month. 

The first had involved a shelf, a spirit level, and a rogue tin of baked beans that had launched itself at her head like a Tomahawk missile. The second had been a “simple” repair to the garden gate, which ended with the gate swinging freely and the fence leaning as though it had been out on a good night with the rugby club. 

And now, the electrics. 

“I was trying to install a dimmer switch,” Ted said as they tiptoed through the hallway, dodging tools like landmines. “You said you wanted mood lighting.” 

“I am in a mood, but I meant candles, Ted. Not a full-scale rewire.” 

The kitchen was bathed in the eerie glow of the fridge light, still valiantly clinging to life. Maggie flicked the breaker switch in the fuse box. Nothing. 

Ted peered over her shoulder. “Maybe if I just......” 

“No,” Maggie said, swatting his hand away. “You’ve done enough. We’re calling someone.” 

“A professional?” 

“Yes.” 

“But I watched three YouTube tutorials!” 

“And yet here we are, Ted. In the dark. With Alexa trying to give CPR to the toaster.” 

Ted looked genuinely wounded. “I thought you believed in me.” 

“I do. I believe you’re very good at lots of things but NOT DIY.” 

They sat in silence for a moment, the kind that only comes when one partner is trying to be supportive and the other is silently questioning their life choices. 

Then Maggie stood, resolute. “Right. I’m making tea, do you want a coffee? I think we have power to the kitchen.” 

Ted watched her go. DIY was his Everest, his white whale, his personal challenge. He’d grown up on Changing Rooms and Grand Designs, convinced that a bit of MDF and reckless optimism could solve anything. 

Sure, he’d had setbacks, like the time he’d tried to put up a shelf in the bathroom but somehow managed to put is up sideways, only just getting it down in time before Maggie took a photo, but he was learning. Slowly. Painfully. 

He glanced at the fuse box. It glared back, smug and inscrutable. 

He needed a plan. Something to redeem himself. Something that would make Maggie say, “Wow, Ted, you’re not just a hazard to society you’re a visionary.” 

And then it hit him, not one of his failing shelves but - mood lighting. 

Not just any mood lighting, romantic mood lighting. 

He went into the loft and rummaged through the Christmas box, emerging with a tangled mess of battery powered fairy lights, and what might once have been a Christmas reindeer. There was also a lava lamp from 1998 and a box of tealights that smelled vaguely of regret and cinnamon. 

He got to work. 

Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Maggie boiled water in a saucepan, the kettle having given up the ghost muttering to herself. She’d long ago accepted that life with Ted wasn’t dull. He was the sort of man who could turn hanging a picture into a near-death experience but he was hers. 

When she returned, triumphant with two mugs and a slightly singed sleeve, the hallway had transformed. 

Twinkling lights danced across the walls. A lantern glowed softly on the windowsill and in the centre of it all stood Ted, holding a remote control like a magician about to reveal his grand finale. 

“Ta-da!” he declared, pressing a button. 

The lights blinked, then blinked once more. Then they began to strobe like a nightclub in Zante. 

Maggie put down the mugs. 

“Ted!” 

“Wait, wait, I can fix it” 

The lights turned red. Then green. Then began to flash in Morse code. 

“I think it’s Morse for SOS,’” Maggie said. 

Ted frantically pressed buttons. The lights settled into a gentle purple glow. He looked up, hopeful. “Romantic?” 

Maggie stared at him. Then burst out laughing. 

“You’re ridiculous,” she said, wiping her eyes. “Completely, utterly ridiculous.” 

“But charming?” Ted asked. 

“Like a dress made exclusively of rail used tickets.” 

Ted grinned. “I’ll take it.” 

They sat together on the stairs, sipping at their mugs in the flickering light. The house was still dark. The main electrics were still fried. But somehow, it didn’t matter. 

Because in the chaos, in the soot and the strobing lights, there was love, the sort that survives DIY disasters and rogue tins of beans. The kind that laughs in the face of fuse boxes and finds joy in the absurd. 

Maggie leaned her head on Ted’s shoulder. “Next time,” she whispered, “we’re hiring someone.” 

Ted nodded solemnly. “Agreed.” Then paused. 

“But I did see a tutorial on plumbing…” 

Maggie groaned. 

The lights flickered. 

Alexa ordered a fire extinguisher. 

And somewhere, deep in the heart of the house, a tin of beans rolled ominously off a shelf. 

The next day, the power was back on, thanks to a weary electrician named Dale, who arrived wearing overalls and the thousand-yard stare of a man who’d seen too many amateur rewires. 

“So,” he said, peering at the fuse box, “who wired this?” 

Ted coughed. “That depends on your definition of ‘wired.’” 

Dale sighed, replaced half the fuses, muttered something about “creative circuitry,” and left with a warning that should have been engraved above the front door: Step away from the screwdriver. 

Maggie made breakfast—toast a bit overdone and slid a plate in front of Ted. 

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” she said. 

Ted smiled. “See? You do believe in me.” 

“I believe you should never be left unsupervised with electricity.” 

He buttered his toast thoughtfully. “You know,” he began cautiously, “Dale said the bathroom radiator’s making a funny noise.” 

Maggie put down her fork. 

“No.” 

“But—” 

“No, Ted.” 

“I could just take a look—” 

“No, Ted!”