Pressed into the role of resident domestic goddess, I must clean many things. Many, many dirty things. And I can say with no small amount of pride that I manage quite successfully to dodge, duck, dive and dodge most of the filthiest tasks.

I’m only telling you this so you won’t wonder why I didn’t know what kind of bulbs live in the accursed ceiling fan.

So, I start dismantling the hideously filthy fan… and discover the CFC bulbs! *gasp* This fan is only a few years old; how could I have installed [read: stood over Arthur while he did the work] a fan with CFC bulbs? I loathe the things! Have you ever seen yourself under fluorescent lighting? I have, and it’s not pretty.

So I hurry to take them down, but the second I touch one it starts to disintegrate in my hand. Headlines scroll past in my head, screaming things like “Grandmother dies from mercury poisoning after CFC breaks”. [Because nothing else will matter to the media except my certified crone status, we all know that.] So I try to unscrew the bulb, but it just turns and turns in my hand. Nothing really happens. I’m sure you all can come up with your own analogy.

I try each bulb in turn; same thing. I can’t get them out.

Meanwhile, the goodies I had taken off the bulbs are drying by the sink. I let Arthur pick the fan out; all this must be his fault.

Our story continues: I go out to the back yard, where YsD is sitting in a lounge chair reading a book. Don’tgetmestarted. Blowing the bangs back out of my eyes, I describe my predicament to her general direction. As usual she has an answer. She has an answer for everything. Her answer doesn’t help. But. As soon as we walk back into the house she strolls up to the ceiling fan and plucks one of the bulbs out as casually as one would pick an orange. Bitch.

I can’t change them, the sockets are not meant to hold anything but the CFC bulbs.

I’m ready to tear this sucker down with my bare hands. Who wants to help?