Atomic batteries to power; turbines to speed

There is a quaint oddity about the layout and operation of utilities at the Athenaeum Club. They work, but this is in spite of themselves, I think.

It was agreed quite quickly, that I should be in charge of the gas bill, while Beastie took charge of electricity. This is an arrangement that has worked well enough, despite the occasional power cut, but the old nerves have been severely tested this past week, as it looked as though circumstances would conspire to move the Athenaeum Club into a complete power black out.

Electricity supply is through a meter that is recharged by key. It is a little like the old meters where you would stuff a shilling in for a couple of days' electricity, except that this charges it up for about a month at a time. The key, in addition, allows you a one-week grace period before cutting the power off, so it's a better arrangement than shoving money into the meter every couple of days. There’s no need to make arrangements for the electrickery company to read the meter, for one thing. The downside is that the power goes off once a month and someone has to high tail it down to the meter and use the key before any times etc on electric clocks are lost. It can smeg your work on the PC, too.

By and large, this arcane system works, though. Except that in the last month, Beastie came close to suffering a heart attack when the electrickery company sent him a bill demanding £450 for unpaid supply. After the initial horror, of course, he was fired with righteous indignation, and called their helpline. He didn’t get through. I believe he tried again a couple of times before giving up. I am now half expecting the bailiffs to turn up, or the power to be disconnected, or both. We’ll see.

Anyway.

Last Thursday evening we ran out power. There we the usual stunned pause before a few hundred pounds of Beastie careered into the hall, opened the cupboard and keyed in the power. As of now, a week later, that key has not been recharged. Or rather, the meter has not been charged. In the area DT works, it seems that the number of outlets that offer the requisite ‘pay-point’ service, are in terminal decline, and having spent the weekend off in Portsmouth, the habitual trip down to Finchley to the favoured outlet was out of the question. It seemed that we might have to spend the evening in darkness, should the power go off.

Thankfully, this has been averted. DT managed to find a place at lunchtime (not before I’d wasted a chunk of my lunchtime scouring the Victoria area, it has to be said), and now we have to arrange for him to get the key to me before I go home and he heads off to see his brother.

I wish we had a standard meter.

The gas, of course, presents its own entertainment. I managed to get the gas account changed into my name, and a direct debit set up quite quickly simply by making a telephone call. Of course, I had to find the meter for that to give them a starting point for my billing.

Where would you assume the gas meter might be? Under the sink? In the airing cupboard? In the bathroom? Hidden in the kitchen somewhere?

Nope.

The gas meter is right down the end of the outside passage, by the dustbins. It’s not even in a protective box, but open to the elements. Occasionally the local yobs turn it off for a giggle.

Still, it’s less hassle than the electrickery, and if there’s a gas leak, any explosion will be outside and some distance away from me.

So it’s not all bad.

Atomic batteries to power; turbines to speed

There is a quaint oddity about the layout and operation of utilities at the Athenaeum Club. They work, but this is in spite of themselves, I think.

It was agreed quite quickly, that I should be in charge of the gas bill, while Beastie took charge of electricity. This is an arrangement that has worked well enough, despite the occasional power cut, but the old nerves have been severely tested this past week, as it looked as though circumstances would conspire to move the Athenaeum Club into a complete power black out.

Electricity supply is through a meter that is recharged by key. It is a little like the old meters where you would stuff a shilling in for a couple of days' electricity, except that this charges it up for about a month at a time. The key, in addition, allows you a one-week grace period before cutting the power off, so it's a better arrangement than shoving money into the meter every couple of days. There’s no need to make arrangements for the electrickery company to read the meter, for one thing. The downside is that the power goes off once a month and someone has to high tail it down to the meter and use the key before any times etc on electric clocks are lost. It can smeg your work on the PC, too.

By and large, this arcane system works, though. Except that in the last month, Beastie came close to suffering a heart attack when the electrickery company sent him a bill demanding £450 for unpaid supply. After the initial horror, of course, he was fired with righteous indignation, and called their helpline. He didn’t get through. I believe he tried again a couple of times before giving up. I am now half expecting the bailiffs to turn up, or the power to be disconnected, or both. We’ll see.

Anyway.

Last Thursday evening we ran out power. There we the usual stunned pause before a few hundred pounds of Beastie careered into the hall, opened the cupboard and keyed in the power. As of now, a week later, that key has not been recharged. Or rather, the meter has not been charged. In the area DT works, it seems that the number of outlets that offer the requisite ‘pay-point’ service, are in terminal decline, and having spent the weekend off in Portsmouth, the habitual trip down to Finchley to the favoured outlet was out of the question. It seemed that we might have to spend the evening in darkness, should the power go off.

Thankfully, this has been averted. DT managed to find a place at lunchtime (not before I’d wasted a chunk of my lunchtime scouring the Victoria area, it has to be said), and now we have to arrange for him to get the key to me before I go home and he heads off to see his brother.

I wish we had a standard meter.

The gas, of course, presents its own entertainment. I managed to get the gas account changed into my name, and a direct debit set up quite quickly simply by making a telephone call. Of course, I had to find the meter for that to give them a starting point for my billing.

Where would you assume the gas meter might be? Under the sink? In the airing cupboard? In the bathroom? Hidden in the kitchen somewhere?

Nope.

The gas meter is right down the end of the outside passage, by the dustbins. It’s not even in a protective box, but open to the elements. Occasionally the local yobs turn it off for a giggle.

Still, it’s less hassle than the electrickery, and if there’s a gas leak, any explosion will be outside and some distance away from me.

So it’s not all bad.