This is one for the “I don’t believe it” department.
Tigger was still too unwell to go to work today. I got up, made tea and switched the water heater on for washing up and a bath. While waiting, I settled down to catch up on the blogs I follow. I had just started to write a comment on a blog when…
The power went off.
I immediately rang the power company and reported it. “Are you sure?” enquired the young lady. “We’ve had no reports.” “Well, you soon will have,” I retorted grimly. She said she would check and ring me back. In the meantime, I went out into the shared hallway of the flats and there, on the mat, was a card. Undated, untimed, it informed us that the power would be cut off for “emergency repairs”, from (blank) to (blank). So helpful.
I started doing the washing up, fumbling around in the semi-darkness. The phone rang. The young lady confirmed that there was an outage. They needed to complete the emergency work they had started yesterday. Why, if they knew they were going to do this, didn’t they tell us the evening before when they rang to ask if everything was in order? Obviously the left hand doesn’t bother telling the right hand what it is doing.
We were told that the estimated time of power restoration was 1 pm. Fortunately we now had the battery powered lantern and I went off to have a bath (the water had got hot enough before the power failed). By midday, we were feeling hungry as well as depressed from sitting in the semi-darkness, so we decided to go to L’Angelo cafe. We had brunch and then went for a bus ride, hoping that the power would be back on by the time we got back.
We are home now and the power is on but resentment remains. Why do we accept such a poor standard of service?