Finally, the standard lamp in the corner of the lounge goes out. You do not notice until the patch of darkness where an amateur oil painting (30 centimetres x 20 centimetres) of an unknown seascape is left in unflattering darkness. Yet, the imitation brass standard lamp stands as uselessly as a sentinel without a rifle. This light fitting had been purchased amid a flurry of indifference. No sooner had it taken pride of place in the room, the variable resistor that served to dim or brighten the light ceased to function. The trusted electrician of the neighbourhood was summoned. Not finding a replacement ‘dimmer', the artisan produced a tumbler switch of the sort you would have for a bedside light. He removed the variable resistor by cutting the thin cable in the column as if he were disarming an explosive device. “The white! Cut the white one!" you are tempted to shout. But you do not, because the local sparkie has no sense of humour. Having stripped the plastic to reveal shiny copper strands, he deftly twists the not so shiny copper bits of the wire that emanate from the new switch and winds soft insulating tape. Hey presto! A fire risk. Where there was once a variable resistor of which only the knob was visible on the column, you now have a standard lamp with a tumbler switch, complete with fingerprints. You feel you possess something of a conversation piece – a standard lamp with what looks like a colostomy bag in the semi-darkness, which is what you are left with because the bulb of this device – an overpriced glass article with a filament that seems that it will snap as soon as you even look at it -– has to be replaced often. Eventually, not even a new bulb will shine. Besides, the dish, which was supposed to direct the light upwards in the form of a truncated cone with a wide apex angle from the top of the column, hangs at a jaunty angle because the ring of plastic that had supported it, snapped and fell off. You wondered where it went. A piece of broken plastic jammed in your foot last week. Your wife expresses a desire to replace the useless article in the corner of the lounge. You venture out wondering where you might obtain a suitable replacement. What about a branch of a famous light-fitting retailer in Heliopolis? They will be bound to have what you want. On entering, you notice light fitting for outdoors. Mind you, the lamppost with the frilly bit at the top might look silly on your balcony. Stay focused and seek out the required item. Apart from some bored-looking customers, and (one assumes) shop assistants with their arms folded across their chests discussing whatever, no one has registered your presence. You breeze out again, equally unnoticed. Well, it is a pleasant day for a stroll. The dry cold that penetrates you to the marrow can be beaten as you briskly aim for Haroun Street. Ah yes, Haroun el-Rashid. You bet he never had any problem buying light fittings for his palace, especially since electricity was still a curiosity in his day. Is ‘kahraba' not a Persian word? No matter, as you stride purposefully into another emporium. Nothing matching the image in your head. And another shop. What you find looks more sturdy and more tasteful that the object at home. You ask the proverbial man in the shop about the bulb. “A normal one," he replies. You ask if you can check. You begin to tilt the lamp towards eye level when he offers to bring a set of steps for you to climb up and peer in. The cost is reasonable. Can this person be entrusted with delivery? “Depends where." You tell which district you live in, which is no more than two miles away from his shop. “Difficult," he replies with a dismissive grimace. You wish you were in a position to throw away several pounds worth of business. Whether “one is born every minute" or not, you storm out. As for the place where the owner took at least twenty minutes to find two crumpled black bin liners to wrap another customer's purchases and to write out a receipt, you give up waiting. You progress northwards up the street and, after peering into some poorly lit sales areas (irony of ironies), you find something that exactly matches the image of the useless article at home. The price sounds right, but there's a snag. “The dimmer thingy doesn't work," say the owner, who looks like a Mafia don without the cane. You ask if their product works. They have to go two doors up to get that an overpriced glass article with a filament that seems that it will snap as soon as you even look at it. They plug it in and – ta-raa! – nothing. As Mohamed Ali Pasha said in 1805 “Nuk është një suxhuk" ...Well, he was Albanian. (Were you expecting him to have said ‘Walla suguk'?) Never mind suspension of disbelief, but amid profuse ‘Aasfiin' (Sorry - in the plural), you leave the shop. Suddenly, there it is. You have to buy it. It looks sturdier and less cheap than the stupid thing at home. You must have it. An assistant actually greets you and asks what he can do for you. After being revived with smelling salts, you explain your reaction. “You actually spoke to me when I came in. Thank you!" you say. “‘S my job, inni?" Rather than shamefacedly turn up at home with a shop soiled article – you wish employees would be more careful with the bucket and mop – the salesman disappears to find what you require from the store somewhere ‘round the back'. You are shown a seat. “Rest a while," his colleague behind a desk tells you. A few minutes later, the salesman returns with a half-open cardboard box containing all the bits. All present and correct. Of course you can put it all together yourself at home. Your wife thinks you can do anything. Taxi!
