For quite some time I have been complaining – voraciously – about the fluorescent lights in several of the rooms downstairs.
The one in the den only agrees to come on twice a year; you must either leave it on 24/7 or use the computer by candle light. The irony of that is not lost on either of us. The kitchen and bath come on when they sense you are finished whatever you came into the room to do. This is not really problem in the bathroom; I don’t wear makeup and The Squire doesn’t shave, and there’s a nightlight that will serve for just about anything else you need to do. The kitchen is more problematical, as I often need a flashlight to read a recipe or tell how full a cup is. As I am putting the food on the plates, the light will come on – and I swear you can hear it snicker.
“Would you please replace the ballast in the lights?”
“There’s more to it than that.” This, I understand, is Husband Speak for “I don’t want to be bothered right now”.
Saturday, after flipping the kitchen switch a dozen times, The Squire went off and purchased new bulbs for all three rooms. They now come on, but they flicker. This would be maddening enough all by itself, but the warning sign for each of my three TIAs has been that I see flickering lights behind my eyes.
The Squire is now off to The Big Store to purchase ballasts for the fluorescent lights. I hate to say, “I told you so”. (Not really. I’m gloating.)