The North Thames Gas Saga

Oh, the follies of youth

Photo by Smabs Sputzer CC BY 2.0

Many moons ago, before British Gas was an entity, gas (as in the invisible fumes type, not petrol) was supplied by regional gas boards. The one that served us, by which I mean my parents, my sister and me, was North Thames Gas.

North Thames Gas and I were not what you would call “close”. I didn’t send letters beginning “Dear North”; I didn’t phone up to say “I just wanted to hear the sound of your pipes.”. Our relationship was amicable, perhaps even cordial, but always professional. But that was to change.

When I took up my first job I rented an apartment which was still in the North Thames Gas area. But I was all-electric. My apartment was on the ground floor of a three floor block. The post simply landed on the mat, and any letters not taken from there were left on a ledge in the hallway.

One day I returned from work to find a letter from North Thames Gas addressed to “The Occupier” and citing my address. Had I been older and wiser, I should have realised that North Thames Gas had no idea who lived in my apartment. I’d have ignored the letter, or written on the unopened envelope “Please return to sender”. But in those days I was young, and unwise. I opened the envelope, to read a letter that stated that the meter had to be read, so could that be arranged immediately?

I phoned them up, and the following conversation ensued:

Me: There’s no need to read the meter, because I don’t use gas. The meter isn’t even connected to anything.

NTG: We still have to read the meter, and check for leaks.

Me: There won’t be any leaks, because there isn’t any gas.

NTG: Well we still have to check.

Anyway, to cut a long story short, someone came over, read the meter (four zeroes), did not check for leaks as far I could tell — I mean, he didn’t light a match or anything — and went away.

Two days later I received a letter from NTG stating that if I didn’t let them in to read the meter they were going to instruct bailiffs to break down the door. And this time I was no longer merely “The Occupier”, I was me.

I phoned them up and said that this was beyond a joke, and could they please come along and take the wretched meter away. That was duly arranged — and three days later I received another letter — red this time — stating that they were just a phone call away from sending someone with a battering ram, or whatever bailiffs use to do their work.

It was time for another phone call.

Me: I think you might find it hard to read my meter.

NTG: Why?

Me: Because it isn’t here.

NTG: Where is it?

Me: How should I know? Ask the bloke who took it away.

NTG: Who was that?

Me: Someone from NTG.

NTG: Well there must be another meter. Can you have a look please?

Me: OK, give me a few minutes.

I went off and brewed a cup of tea. Five minutes later I took up the conversation again:

Me: I’ve looked everywhere — in cupboards, even under the bed — but I can’t find another meter.

NTG: Well, we’ll have to send someone round to verify that.

Me: You mean you want to send someone over to look at an empty space?

NTG: Yes.

That was arranged. The bloke turned up, and I opened the gas meter cupboard.

Gas meter reader: There’s nothing here.

Me: So it would appear.

GMR: Where’s the meter?

Me: It was taken away by one of your lot.

GMR: Are you sure it was one of ours?

Me: No. All I can tell you is that he turned up in a North Thames Gas van and was wearing a North Thames Gas uniform. I suppose it is within the bounds of possibility that he heard there was a spare gas meter going, stole a van and a uniform, and hot-footed it to my place and took it away. But what would anyone want an old gas meter for anyway?

GMR: I don’t know. I’ll report this when I get back to the depot.

Three days later … well, I’m sure you’ve realised by now what happened. I was at the end of my tether, and took the only course of action I could. I phoned North Thames Gas again, for what turned out to be the last time.

Me: I think I’ve worked out the problem.

NTG: Oh yes?

Me: Yes. I think the bloke who lives upstairs me has a gas meter. Let me give you his name and address….

Three days later a letter from North Thames Gas appeared on the doormat, addressed to the fella upstairs.

A couple of days later I caught sight of him, looking visibly aged.

I still feel guilty.