When Mary flipped the light switch in the office this morning the bulb in the ceiling fixture flickered peevishly and gave up. I checked my records. I'd changed that particular 75 watt bulb on the 9th of November. It had survived 57 days. 16 days more than its predecessor and 4 days less than the bulb before that.

I pulled the fixture open just enough to change bulbs, reminding myself, as I reached in gingerly, that I ought to see to the accumulation of creepy insect husks sometime.

I recalled distinctly the day I bought the replacement bulb. A middle-aged man stood in front of the display, scowled at the massed bulb boxes, shook his head and muttered. "Long life my ass."

He was right to be annoyed. Every box proclaimed longevity. They should all have been sold under the brand name "Mayfly." It says something about our society that so few of us dare to stand in the aisle and mutter.

Come to think about it, it probably says more about me that I keep track of how long our light bulbs last before they expire with a dim orange blink.

For the price, they could at least go out with an exciting flash and a bang like they used to.