Spurred on by our profligate and frankly gung ho approach to energy consumption, we (well, I – as the more or less “responsible adult” and self appointed keeper of the house aka control freak) decided to have a Smartmeter installed so that I might obsess over it and passive aggressively monitor Mrs Baps unnecessary energy consumption. I mean helloooooo who needs to see when they’re having a pee? She should know where both her urethra and the lavatory seat is by now, she’s 44 for fuck’s sake.
The date was duly set for a day in March and the annual leave booked accordingly. As I crossed off the dates on the calendar my excitement mounted. A new toy to play with! For a week! Until I get bored with it!
Cometh the hour, cometh the beast from the east. Smartmeter installation postponed. This annoyed me hugely, as you can imagine. Oh I know it’s not a hill of beans compared to the troubles in the world at large but I was still pissed off, because it’s all relative innit? Relative in this case to my overreaction to minor irritations.
Smartmeter installation rescheduled for 19th April. I woke with trepidation at 7am. “They’ll be here between 8am and 12 noon”, I muttered to no-one in particular. “That means they could be here at 08:01 – I’ll get in the shower now so I’m ready”. Did they come at 08:01? Did they fuck. 11am and in he strolls, bold as brass, Smartmeter ahoy.
My spidey senses started tingling when I saw his shoulders clench at the mention of the location of the electricity meter, which might as well be on the moon for all the good it’s doing at the back of the kitchen cupboard where the old potatoes go to sprout tendrils and die. Sensing trouble ahead I offered coffee and panscone (with butter and jam if you please). He accepted without hesitation and poked around the cupboard until the coffee was proffered. He chatted a while over his coffee and panscone (bebuttered and bejammed), me being all nice and sociable, and tinkling laughter, thinking I’d charm him into installing my Smartmeter. Sadly it wasn’t to be. He couldn’t get at one of the screws due to the location of the electricity meter and thus the game was a bogey. That was my last panscone too. “I’m really sorry”, he lied “If I could have installed it for you I would, because, well, you seem like a nice person”.
To add insult to injury his meter readings sent us 400 quid into bastard debit somehow. Fuck me. I can’t catch a break.
On my hourly scroll through instagram today I bizarrely ended up down a rabbit hole of female American motivational speakers with shiny hair, white teeth and no doubt pert breasts and buttocks. After I’d stopped sneering I noticed they had hashtagged #armtights. I’d never encountered such a thing and was intrigued because I’m only human.
Arm tights, you say? What in the name of the wee man is this abomination, thought I, and do I need to throw money at it? Having recently cropped my top half out of an otherwise mildly flattering photograph recently due to my flabby dinner lady arms, worsened by the dramatic effect of foreshortening a la a Caravaggio painting, I decided I’d throw not only money, but also caution to the winds and invest in a pair of so-called arm tights in an attempt to defeat the laws of physics by compressing my arm-lard in a tube of industrial strength lycra. Off to eBay I popped. £5.99 for two arm tights including postage can’t be bad. One black, one pearl coloured apparently. I’ll report back. Don’t hold your breath. I’m a marketer’s dream.