Electrical Mysteries of London

I remember a story of Somali refugees who were found hungry, their children dehydrated, in the American motel where they had been dropped by an aid service. The case worker assigned to them had not appeared to explain to them how things worked. They had a debit card and could have walked to a store, but they didn't understand what the card was or how things worked for getting food in America.

I feel a bit that way when it comes to getting electricity in London.

Before I get into that, let me say that we like our flat and our Queen's Park neighborhood quite a lot. The neighborhood is diverse. We're within walking distance of two shopping districts, one of which is very working class, featuring urban convenience groceries, Internet cafes, and a Laundromat --- urban immigrant businesses. The other that is just half a notch up, with restaurants, pubs, and a Starbuck's. We're close to a mosque and to a centre (like that spelling? I'm catching on!) for inter-faith activities. Our three local constables out walking the beat together last night were two men and a woman, and one of the men was a Sikh. The ethnic/racial mix is broadly diverse.

So we're happy, to a very large extent. But there have been some things we just haven't been able to figure out on our own. In the kitchen, a sign on the boiler instructs us to read the owner's manual before attempting to operate. There is, of course, no owner's manual.

Our gas and electric are on a "token" system. Rather than coin-like tokens, we use an electronic card for gas and an electronic key in another case. The system is supposed to work like this: to heat and light our flat, we take the appropriate token devices to the neighborhood news agent --- a convenience store or news stand in the U.S. --- and hand over cash. The news agent uses a device to load the token with electronic credits. We go home, put the token into the meter, and press buttons to load credit onto the meter.

With the gas token, the operation is straightforward. I inserted a loaded card into the meter, pressed the top of two buttons, and saw first the amount of credit on the card and then the addition of that sum to the credit in the meter. Great!

The electric is another matter. First, the meter is situated about nine feet from the ground. If I stand on a chair, I can reach the key slot and buttons, but I can read only the top third of the LED display. The two buttons do not work in exactly the same way as the gas card. Every time I press the white button, I see an amount displayed in pounds and pence...I think. I can't see the decimal point. I think that when I withdraw the key after entering the amount, I am adding that amount to the meter, but I'm not sure. The blue button cycles through a variety of displays, but I can't tell what sort of units are being displayed, and even the amounts are a guess based on seeing the top of the figures.

We lost power once yesterday, and I managed to get some more credit into the meter although I'm not confident that I know what I did.

The property agent had no information to give us about the property, though he was at least apologetic. The landlord's "manager" had never been to the place and was utterly useless for telling us how the electric worked.

We hoped to get all of this sorted out when our landlord and his "technical" man came by last night. Under Mr. Bastami's direction, Mr. Josef broke the non-functioning lock that kept us from opening the back door, pried open windows that had been painted shut, hooked up the washing machine, explained the operation of the boiler, and readied the steam heat radiators for use. Then we all went together to the electric meter.

Both Mr. Bastami and Mr. Josef know how the meter and key work together in principle. But as for which button does what, and the steps for operation, and how to check how much charge you have on either the key or the meter, it's as much a mystery to them as it is to us. And no one, standing on the available chair, can really make sense of the meter.

Our electrical adventure took a further turn after the departure of our landlord when the fuse blew for the ceiling lights. The flat has been remodeled, and I suspect that the halogen ceiling lamps put a strain on their five-amp circuit when very many of them are on. This will encourage us to turn off lights and acquire at least a couple of lamps that plug into the wall. At the moment, when the ceiling lights go, the only light we can turn on is the hood light over the kitchen range.

We walked to one of the little neighborhood stores to buy candles and a lighter, and we went to bed early. Today we are on the train to Petersfield to meet up with Holly's step-mother, Lynette, and shop for a few more essentials.

Odds and Ends

I feel a bit out of sorts for not having written or spent more than a couple of hours devoted to my teaching this week. Classes started Monday, as we were showing the Morikawas how to do things in our Eugene home. (We left detailed written instructions. Every landlord should be so helpful!) Now, not yet a week later, we're still attending to unpacking and equipping the flat, but even in the midst of lingering chaos, I want to get some stories, chapters, and commentary to my students written. Every time I've been in London in the past, I have been on vacation. But I'm certainly not on vacation now, and I'm restless to be back on track.

At my step-mother-in-law's house in Hawkley, she introduced us to the shandy, a mix of ale and ginger beer. Quite good, and with so little alcohol that I risked it even though I'm not supposed to be drinking alcohol.

Lynette served courgettes with lunch, and I'm reminded that this is a good word for gardeners in America to know. Zucchini vines are always abundantly productive, and eventually your neighbors start to refuse offers of zucchini. But you might say to them, "How would you like some courgettes from my garden?" They might say yes. Of course, this is likely to work only once. It's like offering aubergines to a child who hates eggplant.

The drive to Lynette's house from Petersfield to Hawkley is on those marvelous English roads that are wide enough for only one car and usually have hedges on either side, or sometimes even run through green tunnels of hedge that rise on either side and meet overhead. You zip along with limited visibility and just expect that if you meet oncoming traffic, you'll both stop in time and someone will back up to a position where it's possible to give way. Tree-covered hill slopes that Lynette explained are actually escarpments with open country on top. The trees, or the groves, grow in a special way and are called "hangers." I'm not yet sure what Lynette means by this, but we'll return on a day of drier weather and I'll have first-hand experience.

Lynette speaking about her mother: "Of course, you couldn't put the central heat on before the last day of September. If October started out warm, she'd decide that the heat couldn't come on until the first of November. You'd have mold growing on the ceiling, but never mind! No heat until November! Well, at least that way she always managed to pay her bills."

Lynette's rundown of English papers: "The Times used to be good, but now it's owned by Murdoch and it's gone tabloid. The Independent is truly independent. The Telegraph is a bit liberal, but very good for the sections on Saturdays. Really, the paper to read if you want to be up on international news is The Guardian. They're left, but thorough. They're left, but they'll give both sides."

Lynette about her dog, Badger, as he digs in to his dinner: "He's a real trencherman, isn't he?" Where does this come from?

On the train from Petersfield, the announcement of nearby towns you could connect to from one stop all sounded like made up places to me. I mean, come on. Haslemere? Actually, that one’s plausible. The most absurd ones didn’t stick to my memory, they were so implausible.

In Petersfield, I showed our blown fuse at an electric shop. "Oh, they haven't made them like that for years," the clerk said. "No, you can't buy a replacement, but I can sell you the wire to rebuild that one yourself."

Finally, on our gas and electric adventures, Holly called our gas and electric provider from Lynette's house. She was shunted among six different customer service representatives. In short, we're going to be sent a new gas card and new key, with instructions. Then we are to run our meters down to just a couple of pounds, then phone to have the technician come round to reset our meters for our card and key. Yeah, that'll go off smoothly. Holly's final assessment of British Gas call center employees: "Their incentive scheme apparently rewards them for answering calls, but not for helping people."