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THERE was a power cut on the south side of Glasgow this afternoon, which affected my constituency office and my home.

Incredibly irritating, though fortunately it didn’t last long. Inevitably it got me thinking about my childhood, when power cuts were as common as TV “variety shows”. Some were caused by the strikes which also led to the three-day week, of course, when the TV stations shut down at ten every night to save power, thus depriving the nation of at least 45 minutes of quality programming they might otherwise have enjoyed.

But power cuts just seemed to be a regular and recurring part of growing up in Ayrshire. Our family had a gas cooker and electric heating, so when a cut occurred during the winter months (and I seem to remember them always occurring during the windetr months) we would decamp through to the kitchen and sit there with the oven door open, reading by candlelight and listening to the battery-powered wireless. It actually wasn’t as depressing as it sounds; there was always a collective cheer when the lights came on without warning and we reclaimed our positions in the living room next door.

But the best power cut ever was in February 1979. I know it was then because it happened the night before I took a trip into Paisley to spend money I had just been given for my birthday that week. My friends and I had gone to the George cinema in Beith to watch The Island of Doctor Moreau, starring Burt Lancaster and Michael York. With literally five minutes until the end of the movie, there was a power cut and we were plunged into total darkness. Most of the audience were my age and there was great excitement and shouts of “put two bob in the meter” and other such examples of Wildean wit.

Eventually, after a few minutes during which no-one moved form their seats, the usherette – a post traditionally held by only the most fearsome and intimidating women in Beith – marched to the front of the auditorium and warned us all to be quiet. Her natural authority did the trick and we waited to hear what remedy she would offer her disappointed patrons.

And then, in a booming voice, she started to relate how the movie ended! I suppose that, as someone who had presumably watched it about a dozen times already, she was well placed to deliver an accurate account. But even at the age of 15, I could identify a humorous situation when I stumbled upon it.

The next day, following an unexpectedly eventful trip to peruse Paisley’s bookshops (long story – maybe some other time), I returned home to hear a rumour that the management of the George had opened up the cinema, free of charge, to anyone who wanted to watch the film over again.

I hadn’t actually enjoyed the film in the first place. It was a bit boring. But hell! This was a freebie! So of course I went along. It didn’t improve much with the addition of the last five minutes.