I stubbed my toe on a kitchen cabinet yesterday and I think I broke it. Mostly my fault for casually discarding my swimming bag mid-floor with the intent of moving it later and then proceeding to try and step around it on an apple recovery mission. Cue a small thermonuclear outburst of expletives. Today it's turned a nice shade of lurid, cheap party dress purple. No party heels for me this weekend.
British Gas. Oh there's an entire volume for them. We've had four bills from them since we moved here (we're on their dual tariff for gas and elec, I keep meaning to switch but as per the swimming bag incident, I'm fundamentally lazy).
Bill 1: billed for imperial units. We have metric meter. No seriously, BG, we do.
Bill 2: random numbers. I don't think it's possible to use negative gas.
Bill 3: what bill? Never arrived. No, BG, I don't want to pay by DD because quite obviously I'm not about to trust you with access to my bank account.
Bill 4: Gas but no electric. Electric arrives a week later. £500. Argh, say I, oh wait, it's got the previous gas bill added as an outstanding balance (way to give a granny a heart attack). Oh, and they sent the wonderstuff that are G4S around to read the meter, but they despite the two meters being right next to each other, they still estimated the electricity reading.