Reading Poetry Under Stress

We're still having trouble with the electrics. Yesterday all the plug sockets blew- so no internet, no TV, no cooking, no hot drinks.  The electrician came and poked and prodded and scratched his head- and I followed him around and in the intervals of following him around sat on the edges of beds and chairs and tables and read metaphysical poetry- in particular Henry King's Exequy- which is tender and sad and bristling with great lines. Henry King's day job was Bishop of Chichester.  Anyway after about an hour the electrician located the fault- not anywhere we thought it might be but in the switch that governs the boiler. He turned it off and everything else worked fine. Sadly he doesn't do boilers. So now we're without hot water or heating- which is better than not having any power at all- until tomorrow, when the heating specialist is due.