We sat our boys down to have ‘the chat’. You know the one, I am sure you have all had it to some extent recently. No, not that chat! The chat around turning lights off as you leave the room, not leaving the television on if and when you fall asleep in bed with headphones wrapped round your ears (which is a thing here). And reducing the time in the shower from the average of 27 minutes to a meagre 2.
It was fairly well received. Our youngest coming up with smashing solutions as we spoke
– ‘Dad, I will be going back to school soon, so won’t be here, so I’ll be saving electricity then.’ That boy will go far.
Whilst times are extremely tough, it does take me back … I’m going to say it – how we used to live…
I was born in 1970. I remember when putting money in the meter was a thing. Under the stairs in my Gran’s house, there was the electricity meter.
When the electricity went off, the family game kicked in. Who could find a 50p the quickest? Found, placed in the meter slot and there we were, Bruce Forsyth and The Generation Game appeared as quick as a flash.
But there were times that stick in the mind when no 50p was to be found. Let me get this off my chest, once and for all. The year was 1978, it was the World Cup, hosted by Argentina. Just me and Papa in the house, Scotland playing Peru. Ten minutes into the game, lights out. “Papa, quick, if you give me 50p, I’ll put it in the meter”. “Oh, now where does Gran keep the meter money?”
That was the end of my entertainment for the night, the remainder was spent in darkness, in a long sulky silence.
Like many reading this, there was no such thing as central heating, well, there wasn’t in our household.
One electric fire in the living room, condensation, and sometimes ice, on the inside of the windows.Sleeping under heavy blankets; any movement letting in a blast of cold air. Getting ready for school, as happy as Larry (and Larry’s sister, because my sister was there) as mum had put three (three!) bars on the electric fire. We would sit a foot away, contemplating the school day ahead, until our legs were red raw and mottled from the heat. It was brilliant, maybe not for Mum but for us who knew nothing else.
If someone told us in the 70s that walking about the house in shorts and a t-shirt in the middle of November would eventually become the norm, they would be laughed out of the house. If they could find their way of course, as the meter would probably have run out.
But you know, through all those hard times, not once did my family have to decide between that 50p or buying food, we were truly blessed, and I feel truly blessed now that we haven’t had to either.
For those of you that find yourself in that dreadful predicament, my heart goes out to you. I pray by the time this is published; our new PM has delivered on some much- needed help.
Until next month…”Anyone got 50p for the meter?”
