When a Smart meter is not a Smart meter
“Hello,” said the rather husky voice when I called my electricity supplier after our smart meter stopped working.
“You would need to contact our Smart team in regards to the Smart meters. This is their number: xxx-xxxxxx.” So I did.
Remarkably, I got through to another human being after only pressing a few numbers on my keypad. I explained that my Smart Meter hadn’t worked for a week.
I was told that the company was updating the software on all its Smart Meters and that it should have been completed overnight last week but was taking “longer than expected”. I was advised to try again in a day or so.
Five days on and tried again – and it’s still not working. Now I know that all technology has its problems so the fact that something technical had gone wrong did not worry, or upset me, unduly.
What does make me angry, however, is the way the company communicates with its customers.
I have received numerous emails from the company over the years, either confirming matters or advising me my contract is ending etc. etc.
So why no email to save me turning the wretched thing on and off for a week, moving it around the house in case it was the strength of the Wi-Fi signal wasn’t strong enough and then having to ring them?
They know who has Smart Meters fitted so there is no excuse. And they certainly know my email address. Muppets.

I still can’t believe that my footie team, the mighty Arsenal, beat Chelsea to win their record-breaking 13th FA Cup.
According to the pundits, Chelsea only had to turn up to give new manager Antonio Conte the English double in his first season in charge. Just goes to show what they know.
My family have been diehard Gooners for as long as I can remember. My uncle has two season tickets for the Emirates and my cousin, his son, has one.
My uncle very kindly lets me “borrow” his occasionally for my brother-in-law (another Gooner) and I to enjoy a day out.
Occasionally being the operative word. As we like to reimburse my uncle for one match (I know – we’re so kind) that works out at £52.50 a game (adult season tickets cost between £1,000 and £2,000).
Add onto that the cost of fuel from deepest Suffolk to a mainline station 30 minutes from Tottenham Hale, two return train tickets from that station to Finsbury Park, a few refreshments before and after and a programme and suddenly you are, collectively, £200 poorer.
Which makes going to watch a Premier League game these days a luxury. Not quite the working man’s sport it was, what?