It was an hour earlier that I'd driven into the underground car park of my near-city apartment and saw that the electronic security gates were open. "Bugger," I thought as I stood in he basement car park prodding at the lift button. "The lift's knackered as well. I've been here six weeks and the place is falling apart."

So I dragged the usual pile of stuff from the car - groceries, bag containing work I planned to do at home but never would, an $8.99 bottle of sauvignon blanc (On special! Normal price $11.99), dry-cleaning and gym gear for the trip to the gym I'd dumped in favour of the trip to the bottle shop.

Pausing only to drop the dry-cleaning once and the car keys twice, I trudged up the ramp from the car park, squeezed into the lift, struggled in my front door, dropped the dry-cleaning again and flicked on the lights. I was rewarded with a feeble orange glow flickering from the light fitting suspended above the kitchen.

"Oh God," I sighed. "Now the bulb's about to blow." So I flicked on another light and then another and another, all of which emitted the same sickly half light.

I'm not the quickest of thinkers and I stared at this phenomenon for a full minute, flicking light switches on and off and staring at the dull glow of the bulbs before realisation dawned.

It was a brownout, the first of the season. A few drops of rain had fallen and the Energex distribution system had descended into chaos.

"Morons," I muttered as I groped my way into my windowless and exceedingly dark bathroom, bounced off the towel rack, groaned, and searched for the torch I thought might have been there but which wasn't.

I gave up on the torch, remembering my girlfriend had bought a clutch of those small flat candles which people light by the score and which frequently result in suburban homes being reduced to a pile of charred timber.

The kitchen cupboard seemed a likely place to store candles so I got down on my knees and stuck my head in the cupboard, my skull bouncing off the pipe under the kitchen sink as I did so.

"They're not here," I thought as I rested my head on the bottom of the cupboard and lapsed in and out of consciousness.

Deciding that the injuries being sustained in my search for an alternative light source did not justify the ends, I elected to abandon my quest and cook dinner.

Given that nothing I ever cooked looked particularly appetising, I figured that there could be certain advantages in dim light cuisine.

"At least the stove is gas," I mumbled and while this was true, what I had not realised was that the apparatus which provided the spark to light it was electric powered, my attempts at ignition producing a steady hissing noise and the unmistakable odour of gas but little in the way of heat.

So I fondled around in a drawer and found a cigarette lighter. "Whump!" One of the gas jets exploded into flame, singeing the hairs on my right hand.

The air heavy with the smell of sizzling hair and frying human flesh and my screams of pain resonating around the kitchen, I ran my hand under the cold tap which was on the hot setting and inflicted further third degree burns to my person.

Determined that I would not be denied dinner, I tossed a fish fillet on the pan, miraculously located a glass without smashing its fellows and went to sit on the balcony to savour the delights which only a bottle of $8.99 wine can deliver.

"It could be worse," I thought as I took a gulp, "we could be in total darkness." This was another error or judgement for the thought had but formed when the lights failed completely, despairing "Ooooohhhs" and "Aaaaahhhs" echoing up and down the street.

"This," I said quietly to myself in between gulps, "is marvellous. It's not even summer yet, no one has turned on their air-conditioning units and yet the power has failed." It was at that point that I remembered the fish.

Let me tell you that cooking in the dark, while full of surprises, is not to be recommended, it requiring the chef to hover over the frying pan flicking a cigarette lighter on and off to see if the meal is done.

Judging from the acrid smoke which seemed to be rising from the pan, it appeared to be cooked so I sat there crunching away on burnt fish, the TV screen a black glass eye on the far side of the room, the only sound the swish of car tyres on the street outside and the occasional shriek and moan as someone broke a leg or fractured a collar bone in the darkness.

A few days later State Energy Minister John Mickel proclaimed that Queensland's power supplies were reliable 99 per cent of the time.