Well, not really. And I’m not an electrician. Anyone else would have had electricity. I called my electrician. (this is France, remember, and I am WAY out in the countryside.)
Me: Hi Sophie, I need Laurent to come right away – half my house is in the dark.
Sophie: Bonjour Jennifer – the problem is Laurent is away for the weekend – he went hunting.
Me: That’s all right, I’ll make do with candles. Will you ask him to stop by on Monday?

On Monday night I get a call from Sophie – she tells me her husband will be in very late, if I don’t mind, he could stop by around nine or ten. I tell her I’ll be glad to wait. (in the dark – candles burning.)

Then I get inspired. I look at the electric box. The little cartridge thingies that go in the slots. I don’t know what they are called, but I have a box of them in different sizes. I start replacing them, one by one. Suddenly there is a ‘pop’ and the lights in the house go on! I have repaired the electricity using little cartridge thingies. I am a genius. Except I have no idea what I actually did, or what the thingies are called. Feeling half triumphant, half retarded, I call the electrician and tell him not to bother coming – I have fixed my problem. Voila.
The next night I see him and his wife in yoga class, and he told me that what I had was a fuse box and what I’d changed was a fuse.
Voila.

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