Hannah was struggling to make headway with the bulb. The relationship was going nowhere. She was trying to enjoy herself dancing, but the light bulb hardly knew how to swing-dance, and her face was getting tired from the fixed grin she was forcing herself to wear. The light bulb had all the grace of a drunken electrician. She just wanted to be elsewhere. Things were not working out.

It was always the same in Hannah's relationships with household objects. Things started off brightly and she felt sure that she would settle down and feel happy. But instead she found herself faced with dead silences and evenings staring vacantly at the television. Her relationships seemed to have a shelf-life of two months before things fizzled out and she stopped making the effort; no more phone calls, no more pairs of cinema tickets, no more takeaway curries. Just her own company and a pile of ragged paperbacks.

She had started flirting with the photocopier at work. At the Christmas party, she had sat on it and showed it her arse. It had glowed and emitted a high-pitched buzz. Maybe this time it would be different...