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Sam pushes the door shut with his foot, reaching for the light switch with his right hand (the left being busy holding the two bottles of wine he’d bought moments earlier from a strangely reluctant Nelson – “You drink too much, Sam. Be good to your liver tonight, hey?” - which advice he’d ignored, of course, on account of his being somewhat shaken after his near-death experience at the hands of Colin Bannister). The switch snicks, but nothing happens – the dingy flat remains in darkness.
“Shit!” The bulb must’ve blown again. There’s barely enough light to see by from the street lamp outside his window and Sam curses as he crosses the room, intending to turn on the lamp in the corner but instead catching his shin on the corner of the bed frame. He puts the wine bottles down on the bed, dropping his keys beside them, and feels his way around the bed until he finds the lamp. He fumbles for the switch – again, nothing. Damn.
It isn’t a power cut – the lamps outside still cast their sickly orange glow through the grubby curtains, and the hallway had been lit as usual. There’s only one explanation. He rummages in his pockets for loose change for the electric meter and groans when he fails to find anything useful. He really will have to start remembering to turn off the lamps and the TV before he goes out...