Our punishment

Well we've managed to get rid of British Gas. We cut them off and got a new supplier. And in retaliation, they send us a bill for £1,335.28.

This, apparently, is the final gas bill for gas used from 26 May to 26 June. One month! My goodness, we must have had the heating turned up. And all the gas rings going. 24 hours a day.

But, British Gas, it still wouldn't be enough, would it? Dash! What could it be, I wonder? The cooker's electric, so that can't be it. And the gas lights were dismantled some decades ago, so that can't be it either. Could it be that it's spite and incompetence? Well, I never!

British Gas says they know it's true, because they came round and read the meter in July.

I don't think so, Matey, because the gas meters are in the yard and the only way to them is through the gate.

Now the back gate came off and hit me on the head on Saturday 2nd June. I blogged it, see? And I'm pretty sure I've not used it since. In fact I've been carrying the rubbish through the house routinely on a Thursday night since it happened and, what with the rain, the flooded yard and the slugs, I'm not likely to get confused and think it's been mended now, am I?

So here we start again, the letter writing, the threat of the police, the imminent court action. Now Grit had better stop, because otherwise it'll turn into a rant, and we don't want that.

That I'm saving for British Gas.

Disconnection

Well that throwaway comment about the disconnection was prescient.

Today we get from British Gas a threat that they're not only coming round to disconnect us, they're bringing the police with them. Perhaps they've heard about Shark's tiara. Or perhaps they reckon that because there's such a police presence out in Smalltown now what with the murder, poor bloke, they may as well dragoon a few coppers on the way in case we all get violent with the puffin again.

So it's back on the computer for Grit, writing letters, enclosing evidence, demanding an apology that we won't get. We never got one last time. Probably along with several other million people.

Of course what gets Grit's goat is that we've actually paid this bill from British Gas. We paid the ruddy thing ages ago, so of course we're going to ignore their reminders and then last week's threat of disconnection. Actually, I did try telephoning, three times, but a recorded voice tells me it's a 25-minute wait and then drops the line.

So we've had enough. We've had enough of the appalling service and the bullying and intimidatory language that organisations like British Gas think is quite acceptable when dealing with people. Right, now out comes the soap box. Because it's not just bullying and intimidation so that they can get the money for the flippin' gas we use. Oh no, it's bullying and intimidation to try and force me to comply with their boggering administrative practices so that we fit more precisely into their 'streamlined efficient business computer system' they just spent a great wodge of money installing.

Well, sod off British Gas. I'm not fitting into your model of a consumer for your convenience and we're changing supplier. We're disconnecting you.

First day back

We wake up, jet lagged, to dark, dark days and long, cold nights. We also come back to a broken pump on the downstairs toilet, a watery carpet from a leak in the bedrooms, mould crawling all over the car's interior, and the gas man, who arrives to change the meter at 9 am. We're all in our pyjamas and Dig has no trousers on.

For some bizarre reason, when the gas man rings the door bell the whole family disgorges into the hall. Now the hall is not big, and we have stacked up boxes along the walls in a sort of way which I like to think of as a rather stylish storage solution, so there's not much room. The kids are pushing each other to see who's there; I'm pushing them out of the way to get to the front door, and Dig, without his trousers on, is pushing everyone. It takes nearly five minutes to get to the door. I try to make light of it and say the postman knows us all quite well now. Dig says the gas man's comments are unnecessary and he should just change the meters.

Changing gas meters doesn't seem as simple as British Gas might make out. The gas man asks to see the oven, which I'm not too happy about, because I've never cleaned it since we got it in 1993 when the sales man said it was self-cleaning, so I assumed it did it at night or at some point when I wasn't looking. I retaliate by asking to see his identity card. This takes him five minutes, looking for it in the van. He's called Asif. He then wants to look at the boiler, which I agree to, because it's under the eaves and there's a low beam that every gas engineer I've ever known has bumped his head on.

While the gas man's here I embark on opening the mail. Apart from several letters from British Gas telling us to get in touch so they can come and change the gas meter, there are the usual bills and junk. There are no letters from debt collection agencies, no letters threatening county court judgments, and no final warnings from Powergen about the £486 they once tried to screw out of us for an energy saving light bulb in the hall that had not been turned on for three months. Everything is going very well. I feel smug and organised, and go off to find a paint stripper to scrape the mould off the car seats.