Firstly, in my defence I did not have a high enough ladder. But bipolar girl-minus-man will make a plan to do it by herself in the name of independence.
Brushing aside my propensity for losing my balance, I climbed to the very top of my two-step ladder. That in itself was already far too high for my liking. I mean, phlease, I get nervous in high heels! I soon learnt that downlighting is not a simple bulb switcheroo.
I know I didn’t look pretty doing it, but in the end, I got it done. I pried that bloody contraption from the ceiling despite my lack of balance. I fitted those little pins of the light bulb into their teeny-tiny slots despite my shaking hands. And I did all this standing on my ladder on tip toes.
It may sound simple to ordinary folk. But it was a challenge for me. I was all stiff, wobbly legs, shaking hands and sweating all over. But it was a success. Old light bulb out. New light bulb in. No help required. For a while there, I felt like a superhero. Until reality set in and I realised I have another 14 downlights in this place.
What a great big pain in my asshole to have to repeat this process when the time comes. But I am no damsel in distress. Okay, I concede, I’ve hurt my back just a little bit, but I refuse to ask for help for something as trivial as changing a light bulb.