Dear reader,
Today, I am penning a fantastic tale about some phantasmagorical water meter recordings and a ludicrously exorbitant bill.
Not that I want to, mind you. I assure you, I have better things to do with my time on this Earth. Healing, for one, and secondly, earning a living doing what I love: writing books.
However, the universe has decided that I should grapple with a situation so absurd that it's challenging to put into words. I've documented it on other blogs in an attempt to have proof of my struggles, but readers seem to gather only that there's some discrepancy in the water meter readings due to a possibly defective water meter.
Before I delve into my lamentations, which I also do in my sleep, I must emphasize that my water meter works just fine.
The discrepancy lies between the readings I provided and the ones in the system—or rather, the ones that don't exist on the system.
It all began when the previous owner of the water account and I visited the water office in a remote location by the Black Sea in Bulgaria.
Yes, I now reside in Bulgaria.
But did you know that already? Perhaps you've read some of my books on menopause?
Just kidding, but I do hope so.
Anyway, in April 2023, I transferred the water meter contract into my name. The previous owner settled his bills right in front of my eyes. In fact, I even gave him some leva because he didn't have enough change.
Now, you must know that neither of us, shamedly, spoke or understood Bulgarian. Perhaps now, I understand about 50 words or so, but back then, none. We relied on an online translator, a specific application on the phone.
The employee was kind and patient. Initially, after I provided all the documentation required, she asked me to fill out a form in Cyrillic. I laughed and explained that I only knew one alphabet—the Latin one. I managed to write my name because, truth be told, I had practiced while in Germany. Then, the kind lady did the rest, and I signed.
All done. So, we left, assuming that I would start my bills from zero, so to speak. I meant from the readings we both provided. We took a picture of the water meter, which I still have. I also have the bills that the previous owner paid on that fateful day, precisely the 28th of April 2023.
Due to my limited social skills and the requirement for solitude and absolute peace to focus on my writing, I procrastinated in discovering the exact process for paying the water bill.
You might not know, but where I live, bills or letters don’t reach home. It's a long story. Maybe another time.
If you're wondering if it's like living in the Far West, I'd say probably. I never lived in the Far West.
Although I always paid my bills on time and had never missed a deadline in my life, due to my lack of proficiency in Bulgarian and considering all that happened after I moved here, I failed to do so in this specific case.
What happened?
Kidding. Of course you don’t know, you have your own life to live.
But if you are interested in a bit of mine, let me start from the beginning. Again. Once more.
I moved to Bulgaria, escaping the maddening crowd. I yearned to be alone, seeking solace in an isolated location to gather my thoughts in this foggy brain, grappling with the challenges of menopause.
I'm well aware that menopause is not a disease, but it feels like one when your mind and body undergo such drastic changes, resulting in incredible pains and aches in places I didn't know I had. I had no idea what was happening to me; all I knew was that I felt broken—so, so broken. My soul was in agony, and I'd never experienced such emotional pain in my life.
***
Well, I've written three books on this subject, and I still have a lot to say because this experience is ongoing; I am premenopausal, not menopausal, or whatever.
You can't tell you are menopausal. Menopause is a specific point, a destination reached after 12 months without periods. You can only tell that you have been menopausal. Once you realize that exactly 12 months have passed since your body eliminated as little blood as a spot, you are postmenopausal.
Does that make sense?
It didn't to me; I had to write extensively about it to understand what it meant.
For over a year, I believed I had dementia coupled with a brain tumor and more.
If you're curious to understand how some women are impacted by a natural phase in their lives — a period that spans decades — I invite you to read my books.
Go on, don't be shy; it'll be so much fun, I promise!
Come on, don’t you want to know why we go so crazy that you are convinced we need to be put in an white shirt for everyone’s safety?
***
Now that I've enriched your life with useless information, allow me to persist in my fantastic tale of peculiar water meter recordings and an exorbitant bill that stretches the limits of imagination.
I received a call at the beginning of November urging me to pay my water bills. Luckily, I was with a Bulgarian friend; otherwise, I wouldn't have known exactly what she said.
I paid the bill online, based of an estimation of 22 m3. When I provided the reading, the employee’s reaction was that the reading was incorrect since it reflected an enormous quantity of water.
That made no sense to me, as I compared the reading I provided in April with the new ones, and it showed water usage of 6 m3. Based on that incontestable proof, they owned me quite some money.
In short, after numerous phone conversations held by two of my Bulgarian friends with the water office employee, it turned out that no actual water meter readings were recorded in the system. According to the November readings, it seemed that I had used 119 m3 of water in... I don't know, three years?
This reading astonishingly resulted in a new bill issued in my name for 445 leva.
Wait, what?
I nearly had a heart attack. I was expecting a credit into my account. And I had that. 445 debt.
At the time they invoke the lavishly consumption occurred, I was working as a caregiver in England during the lockdown. You know, COVID?
Bulgaria has its own tale about the pandemic, but let's forget that, shall we?
To comprehend what was going on, I visited the office armed with all my documentation, including photos I provided in April when the water contract was transferred to my name.
They located the form I filled, but no readings.
In fact, nobody knew if anyone had ever taken a reading of the water meter for the account that had my name on it since April.
The employee admitted that something was clearly amiss.
But surprise, surprise, her only solution was: ''Pay.''
Pay for what?
I already paid for 22 m3 that I didn't use. But that’s my fault for not providing the current readings.
I take full responsibility.
I wasn’t concerned about overpaying; having lived in Italy, Romania, and England, I occasionally double-paid a bill, two or five for various reasons.
When that happened, the company would stop charging me until my credit was exhausted. It’s automatic. Programs do that.
I never worried about them taking my hard-earned money, not once. I knew that even if a mistake occurred involuntarily, someone would find and fix it eventually.
This month, November, it's the month I was born. I don't like birthdays; I don't celebrate. I spent it alone, as in 45 other years. I am 48, by the way. I celebrated my birthday three times. But that's another banal story.
In October, my beloved mother passed away. If you know me, you might have read about how I built a house for her in two months back in 2019. Now she is gone. I absolutely and utterly felt like my heart was pulled out of my chest.
I needed peace and quiet to mourn the woman who walked alone to the maternity to give birth to me. But no, the universe decided that I don't deserve that.
But there is another thing that happened to me this year.
In June, I broke my right arm. Several bones were affected. A complex fracture. I am still in recovery. I only managed to make some use of my arm after my mother left this earth.
This year was supposed to be the year when I finally managed to start earning a living from what I dreamt of doing since I was a child: writing books.
Instead, I write emails after emails to water companies that have no reply.
I am forced to write posts about a trivial matter because I have to document this situation in the event that a lawyer will want to work with me to find answers and a resolution to this fantastically absurd situation that I don't know who created.
A computer bug?
Someone or something either erased the data by mistake, or really nobody ever recorded a reading at any point in time for the account in my name now.
What a silly story, eh?
People die in wars or because of tremendous diseases or as a result of natural disasters, and I moan about an exorbitant bill based on readings that nobody ever recorded.
But in my small world, my serenity matters, and nobody has the right to play with it. I moved here to find peace, to cool down a too noisy mind. I came here to start living, and I only live when I write. Books, not emails or blog posts with details that nobody reads. It's not fun writing or reading stories about the mundane.
My god, do you know that I absolutely have no hope that anyone will help me clear this mess made by an employee of a water company in Bulgaria?
Seriously.
What do I do? What else can I do?
On Monday, I am sending a letter to the Water Regulation Commission, but why do I have the feeling they will say it's not their job to resolve issues like this?
It's below their paygrade.
Do you know a lawyer that could help me find a resolution?
Because I won't pay this exorbitant bill. I live alone, I save water to the extreme.
Why is the universe slapping me in the face with such ludicrous problems?
But do you know what the ultimate irony is?
Well, in this remote Black Sea location, work roads started in April. Since then, 5 to 10 days a month, every month, I am without water.
In August, the lack of water went on for 20 days in a row.
First thing I do when I woke up is checking if there is water. 1900.
It's a well-known issue here. People were horrified. I said nothing. Never complained. I had bigger fish to fry.
And now this.
My boiler empties when there is a water cut, then when the water comes back and has enough pressure to reach my place, the boiler complains because of the air that gets pushed in.
It's a miracle it didn't explode by now. But if it does, you know why.
I really don't know how this is going to end.
A television program or a newspaper could help?
I don't know. What I know is that I need peace, and I would like people to do their job and fix their mistakes. I pay for mine.
This bill is an abuse.
The lack of support and the unwillingness to uncover why this happened are trampling on my dignity.
Do they have something to hide?
You tell me.
I wrote on other blogs about this:
Here.
Here.
And more to come.
This is how I spent my days this period. Shooting in the dark.
Thank you for your attention.
You've made my day by stopping by my blog. I hope you enjoyed browsing through my posts and liked what you saw.