FUSEBOY

"There's three of us here now," said Gary Lineker proudly.

"Oh really?" I said, hanging my coat on one of the empty hooks.

"Yep, there's a sparky in the loft."

I still haven't worked out why we needed a sparky in the loft. Nonetheless, the ladder was down and a shuffling, thumping sound reverberated through the ceiling. It was Gazza, the electrician.

"Alright?" said Gazza through the loft hatch.

"Hi," I replied.

"'Ere, where's the fuseboy?"

"Um..."

"The fuseboy. D'you know where it is, chap?"

I almost certainly looked blank - blank like a newly pressed sheet of A4 paper, glistening and fresh from the ream. I have no idea what a fuseboy is. I began to wonder two things:

Does he mean the fuse box?

Do all electricians call it that? Did it start out as a typo and they've just kept the joke going until they've all forgotten what they used to call it? Am I going to look stupid for pointing out the box of fuses and switches, controlling the electrical supply for our house to a qualified electrician?

"I thought it was in that cupboard," I said, cautiously. He didn't laugh so I assumed I was OK. I might be too colour-blind to actually ever be an electrician, but golly I can point out a fuse box.

It wasn't in the cupboard.

So while Gary Lineker was angling the cistern into place over the toilet, Gazza and I were hunting around the house for the fuseboy.

What was he doing in the loft?