Over many months (20 to be precise), I have finally managed to twist NPower’s arm – almost to the point of it snapping – to replace the archaic, overpriced electric and gas meters, which came with our house.
I did have to play the ‘disability card’ – something that I am not proud of. I was, however, very honest in my initial email; even managing to spin my situation into a sob story, so well crafted that it could have been from an X Factor audition.
My goldfish died when I was just 3. I have never fully recovered emotionally. As a result, I now use a mobility scooter. I cannot get to the shops to top up my gas meter. I had to spend last winter huddled up to my rabbit to keep warm. Did I mention my rabbit has a growth condition and has been diagnosed as a dwarf?
Anyway, whatever I said to NPower worked, because Claire, Roman the growth-stunted rabbit and me, now have a prepayment gas and electric meter.
Cue that catchy celebration song from Westlife, they always use on X Factor and Britain’s Got Talent – “What about now? What about today…”.
You could say that I got watt I wanted. Get it? I said that I got watt I wanted. WATT I wanted!
Want to know the coolest thing about the electric meter? Of course you do. The reading was set to 00000. Sadly, I don’t think it’ll stay that way.
A while ago, I blogged about some rather annoying neighbours, who have a habit of sneaking into other people’s bins, to place their own rubbish, because they have ran out of space in their own, due to their poor recycling habits.
Things took a turn for the worse last Friday, when a troubled Claire contacted me at work, to report that she had found something disgusting in our bin.
Granted, bins are not renowned for containing fluffy clouds, sweet-smelling flowers and cute bunnies; but what Claire found lurking at the bottom of ours took disgusting to a whole new level.
Amongst random bits of foodstuffs was a full baby’s nappy. It was a discovery my wife was livid to make – not least because, in order to dispose of the poo-filled parcel, she had to come into contact with it.
We believe that the nappy and other stowaway waste, found their way into our wheelie bin, either before the rubbish men emptied the contents into their lorry – meaning the nappy somehow clung onto the base of the bin – or the parcel of poop somehow fell onto the pavement, only for someone to throw it into our bin.
Whatever the case, it wasn’t our nappy, so shouldn’t have been our problem. Anyway, in response to Nappygate, I prepare to fan the flames of this (so far) very civilised episode of Neighbours From Hell, by attaching a notice to our bin, asking that people don’t place nappies in there.
I am hoping to guilt-trip the flytippers into not repeating their actions. Maybe they’ll become so guilty and embarrassed by getting found out, that they will have no choice but to move away from Weston and even Bath. Feeling forced to run away and never return.
I’ve mentioned problems with the office lift on here before. However, I do not believe that I have blogged about how slow it is.
The trouble begins before I have even got into the lift cubicle (elevator cab, for my American homies).
The doors to enter and exit the cubicles are made of glass and metal. They are very, very heavy. The gold vaults at Fort Knox can’t be much more cumbersome.
Getting out of the lift is the easy part. I am able to use the front of my scooter to ride into the door, forcing it open – like a battering ram.
Luckily, there is often a colleague loitering downstairs, or on the first floor by the toilets (perfectly innocently), who is kind enough to open the lift door for me.
Once securely inside, I must operate the lift by pressing the ground or 1st floor button. Pretty standard? Wrong. Did I mention that you need to keep your finger on the button for the entire ascent or descent?
Last and by no means least, the lift is also the slowest in the world. It would almost be quicker for me to crawl up and down the stairs.
As I am a saddo/weirdo/geek (delete as appropriate), I timed my lift journey from the ground to 1st floor…
33 seconds!
I wonder how I would cope if I worked in a larger building, which used the same lift…
The recently built One World Trade Centre, in New York, has 104 floors. In case you are not aware, the OWTC was built as a memorial for the World Trade Centre. The top floor of OWTC is a mechanical room, so let’s just say that I need to get to the One World Observatory, on the 102nd floor…
Time to ascend 102 floors = 3,366 seconds. Or 56 minutes and 6 seconds. By a creepy coincidence, 56 minutes is the length of time the original South Tower took to fall, after being hit by Flight 175, on September 11th 2001.
Thankfully my office only has one floor to climb.
What about somewhere closer to home? The Shard in London? I’ve stood at the foot of the building, but am yet to go inside. I like the idea of going to the top floor…
The Shard has 95 floors. Hopefully their lift is better than the one at work, as it would take over 52 minutes to reach the top.
Finally the tallest building in the world. The Burj Khalifa in Dubai. At 828 meters tall, it boasts 154 floors. That’s 85 minutes to climb the tower.
Going up and back down the Burj Khalifa would see you holding onto that floor button for almost 3 hours – resulting in a serious case of RSI. Your visa for Dubai will have probably run out too.
Despite this blog post, I am not really moaning about the lift at work. I wouldn’t be able to get to my desk without it, as I sadly haven’t learnt how to ride my mobility scooter up and down stairs.
I wouldn’t say that the lift is a lifesaver – it moves far too slowly to be of benefit in a matter of life or death – but it is certainly a job saver!
Despite last season’s unexpectedly good campaign – which, inevitably yielded no success – Leeds United have already managed to serve the supporters up with a giant helping of their chef’s speciality – the Shit Sandwich.
Given the fact we are still in early July, you could say that the sandwich is our petit déjeuner and as is appealing as a McDonald’s McMuffin.
For those wondering – this is a McMuffin and not a shit sandwich. No, really…
This depraved excuse for a sandwich, has been prepared in honour of selling Leeds’ best defender, Pontus Jansson, to one of the smallest club’s in the league – Brentford. Although, to their credit, despite being a tad on the puny size, Brentford always seem to find a way to beat Leeds.
To rub salt, or should that be shit, into the wound, it appears that Leeds are prepared to accept a rather mediocre amount of money for him.
Given the news, it pains me to admit that Pontus was my favourite Leeds player. In my eyes and heart, he is irreplaceable. Leeds won’t be able to come close to buying a new player themselves of equal quality and will be a weaker side as a result.
Casting my mind back to May, when Leeds got beaten by Derby in the play offs, poor Pontus sat dejected on the pitch side. Maybe he already knew…
So, what does Pontus himself thinking about moving from Leeds to Brentford, in exchange for a handful of magic beans and bag of Haribo?
Sean’s Stories exclusively asked him…
… and by “asked him”, I mean cropped a 6-second clip, from a post-match interview, where Pontus was asked a totally different, unrelated question.
As for further cuisine from the Leeds chef – I am already full after breakfast, and don’t think I’ll need to eat again, for the rest of the day – or indeed the entire football season.
… DINNER TIME!
About Me
So you stumbled across my blog. No doubt after searching for something bizarre on Google. Before you hit that 'Back Button', why not stay and have a read for a few minutes?
If you are after a website which gives advice on how to hack an iPhone X, download the latest Steven Seagal movie, or view nudy ladies, you've come to the wrong place and may now press 'Back'.
However, if you would like a lifestyle blog, written by a 30-something chap, living in Bath (England), feast your eyes on this.
You won't discover how to copy PlayStation 4 games. What you will find is a blog, covering life in the West Country, the highs and lows of supporting two unsuccessful football teams, while sharing a house with a wife and rabbit.
All written by a man, somewhere on the sanity-scale between normal and eccentric.
