DIM in Progress 03 - Advice

Much laughter echoed through the house recently when N1 (do I need a Blog Glossary?  Of course I do!) called at the back door.  W1 answered and, almost choking with amusement, let me know that Alf wanted to see me.  


“To quote Alf,” she said, with S3 already grinning despite not knowing what his mum found so hilarious, “ ‘Is he in?  My electrics have gone off and he’s much more practical than me.’ ”

That was enough for S3.  He was off and the two of them spent the next few minutes giggling like schoolchildren as I heaved my troublesome spine off the settee and Quasimodoed through the house.

“The power’s off and I’ve no lights, so I thought I’d check it wasn’t just me.”  

I confirmed that we were still connected.

“It’s my lights.  They’ve gone off, upstairs and down.”

Now, as people who know me will testify, I am no electrician (or plasterer, bricklayer, joiner, etc.) but I do have a passing knowledge of how the lethal magic works; along what it does, the dangers, etc. and I do understand the colour coding system for domestic wiring. 

In fact, I used to replace broken light switches, the occasional socket outlet and even fit light fittings up until the incident of the exploding lampshade that showered me with hot shards of glass one summer evening in 1990. 

To this day I have no idea what caused the explosion, beyond knowing something happened to overheat the metal fitting and thus the glass until the latter failed.  The great good fortune on that occasion was that W1 and the boys had only minutes earlier passed through the room on their to the garden.  Also, studying hard and bent over an Open University course book, I suffered no more than first-degree burns from the few small pieces of hot glass falling on the back of my neck.     

I had installed that fitting and since then have done nothing more ambitious with electricity than change fuses.  In plugs.  Not the really dangerous ones lurking under the stairs.  All other electrical work is carried out by John, my personal competent electrician.

Anyway, Alf has a reasonably high opinion of my practical skills for one reasons.  In December 2010 a burst pipe in the loft flooded his house and blew all the electrics.  I visited on request – nobody laughed that day.  It was the shock, I think – and managed to identify the cause.  It wasn’t hard.  Very cold weather and unlagged loft pipework were always going to end in tears and I was able to help remedy the effects.  It was a freezing day and Alf was burning wood in his fireplace, filling the house with smoke and raising the temperature of his lounge by a few degrees above zero.  I located the fusebox and saw several circuit breaker trip switches were in the off position.

“The switches have tripped”.  I let Alf know.  “They can be a bit over-sensitive so if I switch them back you may get power.”

“Go on then.”

I turned my head away (always safety conscious) in the event of explosion and, wondering why I didn’t have a pair of rubber gloves, I squeezed my eyes tight and flicked the switches.

They clicked.  Nothing more.

“Okay.”  I said, feeling a bit like James Bond might, after defusing a bomb. “Try the lights”

“Nothing.”

“The sockets.”

“Still dead.”

“Your boiler.”

Whooosh-thump.  “It came on.”

To reduce an overlong story, the circuit supplying the gas boiler in the kitchen was still good, so Alf was able to heat up the house and start the long process of drying out the wiring and contents.  The power came back by the evening, so he then had electric light.  The interior warmed up to a steamy atmosphere as water evaporated from soaked carpets.  I belatedly asked if the water was off, and Alf said it was.  He had worried about burst pipes all through the cold snap and dumped the contents of his Council compost bin on the front garden so he could drag it indoor and upstairs, filling it from the bath cold tap via a hose as an emergency toilet flushing cistern.

That was all I could do.  I asked if he was insured.  He was, but asked me if a company would pay out, as it was his fault the pipes were unlagged.  I said they probably would – for the water damage, not the pipe replacement or repairs – and he should give it a try. 

The last thing I advised was to get an electrician out as soon as possible to check over the wiring.  “Everything might be working, but might not be safe.”  

Over the next few days, carpets were dragged out and spread over the drive and the car, to freeze solid before, after another week, the air temperature crept above freezing and, ever so slowly, the carpets began to dry out. 

A month later Alf knocked at the back door to let me know the insurance company has sent a cheque for £6000.  No questions asked, no visit by a loss assessor, no need for estimates or receipts.  Just a nice fat cheque.

“The wood floor in the kitchen lifted, but I can stick the bits back down and I’ll get a fitter to stretch the carpets back to fit.  Do you know a plumber?”  I did, and told him.  Also reminded him of the electrician.  I went back indoors that day awash with good karma.

So here I was again.  About to give advice I had no place giving, but this one turned out to be a doddle.  I turned off the main power switch, reset all the circuit switches to “on” and turned the power back on.  Light flooded the house, upstairs and down.

“Did a light bulb blow just before the power went off?”

“Yes, in the front room.”

That was the only light not working.  “There’s the problem.  These trip switches can be a bit sensitive and they click off at any provocation.  Replace the bulb and it will be okay, BUT if it blows again or your power trips off, you need to get an electrician out.”   

I then explained the workings of the electrical distribution board to him and went home, full of another dose of karma and a feeling of competence, to where W1 and S3 were just mopping the last of the tears from their eyes.  I didn’t care.  DIM can be effective even if carried out for others and, provided Alf’s house does not burn down or he ends up electrically traumatised (and four days on both are – or rather are not – still the case) I am calling that (in the argot of Saturday afternoon televised sport) a “result”.