Calm, Calmer, Calmest

Another day another dollar, so to speak.

The crumbling grandeur that is the Athenaeum Club continues its campaign of petty annoyance. The boiler of previous gripe continues to under perform and we must needs get the plumber back out to sort it again. We can get hot water, but only through constant use of the override function which will be of little use in the winter when we want the central heating on.

That said, having not seen a gas bill since January, and naively assuming that this was because I pay by direct debit and that I would get an annual summary or similar, I discovered at the weekend that not only have the gas company persistently spelt my name wrong, they have the address wrong, too. The bills have been going to the pharmacy downstairs and once they had a good seven months worth, they decided to drop them through the letter box into the Athenaeum Club. How nice.

It seems that I now have to find time to speak to the gas company. Having been in the habit of paying £30 a month and building a sizeable credit with them, they have somehow managed to more than double my monthly bill (I know there have been hefty price rises, but really) to £70 but have also converted the £100 credit I had built up with them into a £145 deficit, which they kindly took in a single payment.

No wonder I was suddenly short of money.

If these bills are even vaguely accurate, there will be no central heating over the winter. I can’t afford monthly outlay like that, not on top of everything else!

Gravity paid us a visit on Thursday night. The strip light in the entrance passage fell off the ceiling. Our landlord is going to think we have been having wild parties or something, but effectively we are beginning to pay the price for his routine management and maintenance investment of er, nothing in living memory. Imagine our surprise to find the strip light swinging Callan-esque in the middle of the passage way. colonel_maxim and I managed some half hearted repairs on Friday involving wood glue and cocktail sticks. By Sunday that repair had failed and the light was lying on the stairs completely detached this time, from its cables, but with the strip bulb mysteriously unbroken. Wandering down the passageway and trying to find the lock in pitch blackness lost its glamour as an outward-bound exercise pretty much on the first outing, so the electrician has been contacted and with luck he will be here at the weekend and we will have light there again.

If not, be prepared to read all about it in laborious detail here. Oh yes.

In the meantime, I am sitting typing this with the phone jammed under my ear. Yes, you guessed it, I am trying to contact Parcel Farce again and am in a queue. This time I got part way through the automated system before it collapsed; I think that the number of the Athenaeum Club at 1292a defeated it. It doesn’t seem to be able to cope with a letter at the end of the building number, so here I am developing librarian’s neck with the receiver. I am not sure how long to leave it, but I am getting heartily sick of the cheerful jollity of the woman’s recorded voice telling me just how brilliant Parcel Farce are.

Apparently the deliver to over 240 territories and countries.

But not to north London, it seems.

All this hassle not withstanding, I seem to be re-setting to my normal calm demeanour. Over the past few weeks I have been becoming increasingly snarky with every little setback, even with things that would normally elicit mocking laughs and the ceremonial casting of buns. As recently as Sunday I had to bite down on a grumble that came immediately to mind before my more rational self intercepted it and stomped it down. A week ago, I would have been banging the receiver against the cradle and telling the system precisely what I thought of it. Today, however, I am far more sanguine and taking it in my stride. This is good; it means that as things continue to sort out with Mum and Dad, I am slowly reverting to type. I shall soon be facing life with my customary calm. (Though I may make an exception for certain local authorities).

While I have been typing this I have finally managed to speak to a very helpful Asian sounding chap at Parcel Farce and I believe that I have successfully rearranged delivery of my parcel for tomorrow. But then so did ellefurtle on Friday. We shall see.

Look for the sign of the Cat and Kalashnikov and ye shall know.

Right, a cup of coffee, I think, and then it is mysteriously lunchtime. Where did the morning go?

Calm, Calmer, Calmest

Another day another dollar, so to speak.

The crumbling grandeur that is the Athenaeum Club continues its campaign of petty annoyance. The boiler of previous gripe continues to under perform and we must needs get the plumber back out to sort it again. We can get hot water, but only through constant use of the override function which will be of little use in the winter when we want the central heating on.

That said, having not seen a gas bill since January, and naively assuming that this was because I pay by direct debit and that I would get an annual summary or similar, I discovered at the weekend that not only have the gas company persistently spelt my name wrong, they have the address wrong, too. The bills have been going to the pharmacy downstairs and once they had a good seven months worth, they decided to drop them through the letter box into the Athenaeum Club. How nice.

It seems that I now have to find time to speak to the gas company. Having been in the habit of paying £30 a month and building a sizeable credit with them, they have somehow managed to more than double my monthly bill (I know there have been hefty price rises, but really) to £70 but have also converted the £100 credit I had built up with them into a £145 deficit, which they kindly took in a single payment.

No wonder I was suddenly short of money.

If these bills are even vaguely accurate, there will be no central heating over the winter. I can’t afford monthly outlay like that, not on top of everything else!

Gravity paid us a visit on Thursday night. The strip light in the entrance passage fell off the ceiling. Our landlord is going to think we have been having wild parties or something, but effectively we are beginning to pay the price for his routine management and maintenance investment of er, nothing in living memory. Imagine our surprise to find the strip light swinging Callan-esque in the middle of the passage way. colonel_maxim and I managed some half hearted repairs on Friday involving wood glue and cocktail sticks. By Sunday that repair had failed and the light was lying on the stairs completely detached this time, from its cables, but with the strip bulb mysteriously unbroken. Wandering down the passageway and trying to find the lock in pitch blackness lost its glamour as an outward-bound exercise pretty much on the first outing, so the electrician has been contacted and with luck he will be here at the weekend and we will have light there again.

If not, be prepared to read all about it in laborious detail here. Oh yes.

In the meantime, I am sitting typing this with the phone jammed under my ear. Yes, you guessed it, I am trying to contact Parcel Farce again and am in a queue. This time I got part way through the automated system before it collapsed; I think that the number of the Athenaeum Club at 1292a defeated it. It doesn’t seem to be able to cope with a letter at the end of the building number, so here I am developing librarian’s neck with the receiver. I am not sure how long to leave it, but I am getting heartily sick of the cheerful jollity of the woman’s recorded voice telling me just how brilliant Parcel Farce are.

Apparently the deliver to over 240 territories and countries.

But not to north London, it seems.

All this hassle not withstanding, I seem to be re-setting to my normal calm demeanour. Over the past few weeks I have been becoming increasingly snarky with every little setback, even with things that would normally elicit mocking laughs and the ceremonial casting of buns. As recently as Sunday I had to bite down on a grumble that came immediately to mind before my more rational self intercepted it and stomped it down. A week ago, I would have been banging the receiver against the cradle and telling the system precisely what I thought of it. Today, however, I am far more sanguine and taking it in my stride. This is good; it means that as things continue to sort out with Mum and Dad, I am slowly reverting to type. I shall soon be facing life with my customary calm. (Though I may make an exception for certain local authorities).

While I have been typing this I have finally managed to speak to a very helpful Asian sounding chap at Parcel Farce and I believe that I have successfully rearranged delivery of my parcel for tomorrow. But then so did ellefurtle on Friday. We shall see.

Look for the sign of the Cat and Kalashnikov and ye shall know.

Right, a cup of coffee, I think, and then it is mysteriously lunchtime. Where did the morning go?