Of Lights and Lampposts

So I moved into my little la maison in September last year, but I have yet to receive an electricity account. Fueled by the fear of receiving a scary legal document explaining why my lack of payment has resulted in my imminent imprisonment, I've been following up with the ever-elusive City for the last three weeks. It's not like I don't want to pay, I do. I explained the situation to my colleagues this morning. Carol said yes, it's always like this when you want to do the right thing. Her husband bought a TV license a little while ago and then BOOM he was fined for who knows how much or how it happens and let's hope to God you are lucky. Yes, lets.

The last time I spoke to Mr Manuel, from the unsurprisingly aptly named "Electricity" he told me that there was no meter for my erf.
"What does that mean?"I tried to convey my quizzical brow over my beige office phone.
"It means we don't know how your electricity is getting to your house."
"Ok," I said, no less certain of the situation, "but what does that mean?"
"Well," he started, and launched into a long story that culminated in, "so it's possible that your neighbours are paying for your electricity."
"Oh," I said, and gave the matter some thought. I don't mind if number 14 is paying, they keep me up at night with a mixture of domestic disputes, a dog called "Molly" and a very loud piece of equipment that could be a dehumidifier, could be a high-pressure cleaner, or could be the mincing machine they use to chop up the bodies; they seem like the sort who'd have use for it. But number 10, now she's quite sweet. Thing is with these semi-detached Obs houses, you never really know.

Go 30kms down the N2 and there on the corner of Mew Way and Lansdowne Road, you'll see ladders and their owners leaned up against the lampposts; ever-ready to connect one more brightly coloured cable to the electrical box two-thirds of the way to the top. I always wondered why Goodhope FM's traffic report mentioned almost everyday that the lights were out at that intersection... Although there, in RR section, it's not stealing so much as renting electricity. Considering I pay no twenty-rand a month to either of my neighbours, I'm not sure my case really falls into the latter category.

Point is, it's what my dad referred to as "more omnishambles". [Side note, score one for retirement age pop-culture references.] Despite my clear interest in, and passion for paying for my damn electricity, there has been no progress since my conversation with Mr Manuel. Until today. After hounding him with emails, and the occasional telepathic communique, I finally reached him via telephono; most hated of all communicative devices. Then I phoned the woman he told me to phone. Then I heard her tell me:
"Yes, you really need to speak to Mr Manuel."
"Erm," I wonder if I accidentally slipped into a foreign language when I explained the situation to her in the preceding 30 seconds, "so remember I've just spoken to Mr Manuel."
"Aah, ok." Pause. "Well there's nothing really that I can do."
"Ok." I'm not really sure where to from here. I'm staring at a brick wall willing it to move. "Soo, you know, I suppose I'll just wait then."
"Yes," she agrees, "just wait."
"Ok," pause, "cool. Thanks." I put down the phone.

When I am arrested for stealing electricity from my neighbours, and am thrown--yodeling obscenities ofcourse--into the back of a luminescently striped police van, let this blog be evidence that once upon a time, I tried to make like a responsible citizen and pay.