Monday, 27 February 2012

What? Are you on crack?

"Read dials from left to right starting with 10,000. If there is a dial marked 1/10 do not read it. If pointer is between two numbers, choose the lower number. If pointer is between 0 and 9, use 9. If pointer is on a number, write number down and underline number. If underlined number is followed by a 9, take 1 away from underlined number. You now have your meter reading."

Do I? Is that what I have? Are you mental? Was this conceived by some evil mastermind whose life purpose was to confound innocent householders and push them into a Kafakesque nightmare of seemingly clear instructions only to have the submitting incorrect readings over and over again? Was this what passed for fun in 1852 or whenever this archaic and ridiculous meter was installed in my house? As they had no TV, did the family have to gather around the electricity meter and spend the long winter evenings trying to discover what the living FUCK their meter reading is so they can claim back the extortionate amount the robbing bastards have decided they 'used' during the winter, based on an 'estimated reading'?

As any of my good friends know, I am Ebeneezer like in my approach to household heating. I would rather wear twelfty layers than crank up the heating unless it's several degrees below outside. And my house is an ice box. It seems to repel heat. Many a time have I had friends around for the evening and they put more layers on as they enter the house. It's actually not just because I'm tighter than a badger's chuff, it's because I would rather spend my money on things that bring me joy, like shoes, gin and cigarettes. Plus I genuinely don't feel the cold very much. Probably something to do with the excess padding I like to encourage, particularly around my ass.

So I'm not going to let the electricity board (does that exist anymore? It probably doesn't does it. That sounds like something that used to exist, like British Rail. Or Royal Mail. Or the NHS) get the better of me, even if I do have to find something to stand on because I'm too damn short to even see the fecking dials in the first place. Even if I do have to contort my body around the mostly cat-based detritus that seems to have filled up my hall way. Even if I do have to go and check and recheck because the website won't accept what I have come up with after the complicated equations I have been asked to work out.

It's all part of life's rich tapestry when you're moving I suppose. Along with trying to remember who the hell my contents insurance is with and forking over massive wads of cash to estate agents at the other end of the country who you're almost positive are ripping you off. They demanded an extra £200 on top of my deposit of £900 because I have a cat. I mean, what the fuck do they think he's going to do? Devise a criminal masterplan to remove their house brick by brick and transport it to a secret land full of cats and stolen houses? Eat through their venetian blinds? Bring all his cat friends round and have a really messy cat rave?

Fools.

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