So the gritters are out, are they? You have probably seen it on the news in one form or another, but I thought I'd record it here for posterity, or my dotage, or weblog obsolescence, whichever comes first.

UK roads are, like the wicked witch, melting. Tar, like gooey black mozzarella is sticking to tyres and feet and stringing out behind and below. Lovely. It is also the wrong kind of heat for trains (most weather conditions are the wrong type for trains), as tracks buckle and trains are forced top slow down or divert.

The water companies are complaining that there's not enough rain and that we are in drought conditions. At the same time, it's not their fault that the water reserves we do have are seeping away because the old Victorian pipes can't take it any more¹. It's not their fault that they are making record profits and paying handsome dividends. There's nothing left for maintenance. It's not their fault.

I'm no socialist, but back in the '80s when the utilities we supposedly already owned were being sold back to us, I couldn't see the logic (other than as a short-term idea to raise money for the Treasury so that the Thatcher years could be funded at low tax rates). Each of the privatised services is in a mess, and each is kicking out massive profits with little reinvestment - except the trains which seem to be getting worse with massive investment.

We seem to have forgotten how to run the country and judging by the temperatures, Hell is doing the subcontracting.

Edited to add: I'd forget my head if'n it wasn't bolted on. In addition to the melting roads, I meant to mention that the Thames is drying up. The first fifteen miles from the source down stream are now dry, dusty flatbeds. So drought, over extraction and wastage. Hurrah.

¹In London alone, Thames Water are running billboard adverts boasting that the work they are doing will save the equivalent of the GLA building full of water from being lost every 12 hours. Just how much water is being lost?

Hush.

Don’t tell anyone but I am supposed to be on a coaching course. I didn’t want to go on it and I have just found a great excuse to stay at my desk.

It means doing actual work, but it is important and against a deadline, so I can live with that. It also means that I can play with LJ from time to time and check my email, all the things I hate missing when I have to do something away from the PC. Right now, mind, I have to contact Three Valleys Water and spin them a yarn as to why we haven’t paid the water bill yet, and give them a good reason not to:

a) demand the entire year’s bill in one dollop;
b) cut the water supply off, and
c) sue our arses to next year and back.

Oops.

Still, I have a plan, and that involves them not having updated their records to include unfortunate little me on the tenancy list, so how was I to know they need paying?

For these sound tactical reasons, colonel_maxim is keeping mum on this one.

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.