This morning brings an email from EDF Energy, that ultra-efficient arm of the French state, saying that they will be debiting our account for over six months’ worth of juice in one go. We would never have chosen EDF, which we suspect may be milking UK customers to subsidise its more regulated home market. But EDF is where the regulator sent us when our previous supplier ceased trading. On the advice of Money Saving Expert, I shut down the direct debit to the failed company, expecting the transfer to go through rapidly. Ha! Well, the huge bill is just for money we haven’t been spending for six months, but that together with the inflated Council tax bill exceeds our monthly budget for July. Good job for us that we have sufficient headroom in the household account, but I fear for others who have been using the delayed billing to pay off other debts. This is what privatisation does for you. Fly-by-night retail suppliers, rocketing prices, utterly Delphic tariff structures that default to the most expensive price structure at the end of each supply contract: all this plus an ineffective regulatory environment that fails to act promptly when suppliers go tits-up. Snarl over.
Meanwhile, back at the building site we’re still waiting for the new window to arrive. But the walls and ceiling are plastered, the electrics and phone line are installed in the new study, and the radiator is on the wall but not yet in service. The plumber advised us to get the system flushed before we use it - which is fine at this time of year (but another expense). The carpet man is coming to measure up this evening so we hope it won’t be long before we can look for some muscle to bring the necessary furniture downstairs (that’s beyond us now, I’m afraid!) and get the room into use at last.
The garden is growing vigorously, and the first flush of roses has been impressive, notably from all but one of the new ones we planted following the garden works earlier this year. The roses we transplanted seem reasonably happy too. The climbing beans are doing well, despite the attentions of the mountaineering snails, and the potatoes are taking over the world. Leeks are slowly fattening up, so should be useable come the winter. The tomatoes are doing pretty well, and the fruit has begun to set. I’ve got into a routine of early morning watering when the weather has been dry (so have had a bit of time off this week…). Quite a few rudbeckias overwintered again, and we have planted dozens more, so though the buds haven’t yet opened, we should have plenty of yellow daisies well into the autumn. Most of the seeded patches in the grass have filled out well thanks to the warmth of May and the deluges of June. On fine days, the garden is a pleasant place to be - except that the unstoppable weeds keep us pretty busy.
This morning I’ve had a 40-mile round trip to have a couple of lumps examined with ultrasound. They confirmed my GP’s diagnosis that there is nothing to worry about. Quite a pretty drive along the leafy lanes of Kent, but I’m bound to wonder why there’s nothing on offer closer to home. Last time I had such an examination, I only had a 30 mile round trip, but the radiographer was so bloody rude that I asked not to be referred there again. When it was my turn a while back for the abdominal aortic aneurysm screening, it was done here in Disgustedville, and Martyn’s more recent one was at the same practice. I’ve mentioned already the routine three-week waits for telephone appointments with the GP, and the lead time for x-rays - they used to be a matter of turning up unannounced with a referral form. In another department I was told seven weeks ago to expect an appointment in four to six weeks. Silence. There is something definitely amiss with the NHS. It can’t all be down to the ‘£#@“ing hopeless’, adulterous ex-minister, nor to the resourcing of the amazing vaccination campaign, which hereabouts seemed largely to be manned by army medics. I sense a redisorganisation coming on.
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