"So," I hear you ask, "what's it like to have 240 of the Queen's volts coursing through your body as you inadvertantly connect yourself to the National Grid, the very life being torn from you in a bizarre DIY accident?"
In the name of SCIENCE, and in a week that has increasingly resembled the plot of Final Destination, I am able to tell you.
For yesterday, I stood at the top of a ladder, the domestic power supply firmly switched off, grasping the red and the black cables, it became immediately apparant that the belming imbecile I had paid a small fortune to rewire the house had bypassed the consumer unit altogether and sent me a personal supply direct from Southern Electricity.
There was, of course, only one person to blame for this near-tragic state of affairs:
So, this nearly dying business: What's it like?
Does your entirely life flash in front of your eyes? Do the glowing white figures of Michael Jackson and Jade Goody urge you to make for the light? Is there time to stop off and give Derek Acorah's Sam a right old cock-punch?
No. None of this.
This is what happens when you get electrocuted: You make a sound almost exactly like Brian Blessed gargling Tabasco. Then you fall of the ladder, still making a noise almost exactly like Brian Blessed gargling Tabasco.
Then, once your family have ascertained that you have not been killed TO DEATH, you get absolutely no sympathy at all, and the words "You're going to put this on your blog, aren't you?"
"Yes. Yes I am."
I now have a tiny, tiny burn on the middle finger of my left hand, and excellent super powers.
If hideous near death experiences come in threes, I'm still owed one.
KFC bargain bucket tonight...