The other night, while all the contractor shit was going down, our downstairs neighbor called us on the phone. This would have been after midnight. "Hi, I'm locked out," he said. "Can you let me in?"

This happens occasionally, though this time it wasn't his own forgetfulness but the fact that the contractors had been replacing doors. (Why he doesn't use his back door is beyond me.)

So, annoyed but trying not to show it, I went downstairs to let him in. Then I trudged back upstairs.

I was nearly back in bed when all the electricity in the apartment went out. It came back on a few seconds later, only to die and return again.

Laura figured it out. "He's down there flipping fuses," she said sleepily. "Go stop him."

So I trudged back downstairs. And our neighbor admitted that, finding the electricity off in part of his apartment, he had been flicking switches in the fusebox on and off at random.

"I started with that one," he said proudly, pointing to the switch marked MAIN POWER.

I didn't have words to express my opinion of this tactic. I think my glare did, though. I trudged back up the stairs, checked on the two computers that had forcibly rebooted and then reset the alarm clocks.

I stomped all the way to the bed.