Life’s a gas

The Trials and Tribulations of One Gassy Woman

True tales from my time as a Woman in Gas

Hi there, I’m Nichola, a woman in gas. Mind if I sit beside you?

Let me explain further. My first job out of university was with a company that supplied gas to household customers.

It was a real gas working there.

If you didn’t pay your bill, or there was an outage, your household found itself gasless. Well, other than whatever came out of your bottom…

My role was to help resolve customer issues escalated by the call centre. Most of them were pretty mundane, but to this day I recall a few scenarios that made me wonder whether the customers had inhaled a bit too much of this aforementioned gas.

These are those stories.

Women in Gas

For every job I’ve had, I’ve joined some sort of women’s networking organisation — women in tech, women in finance, etc. You go to events, get a free sandwich and schmooze.

My favourite women’s organization, solely because of its name, was Women in Gas.

As a strong supporter of women gaining the same rights and recognition for their farts as men have, I loved being a woman in gas.

Announcing that I was a woman in gas was a great way to introduce myself at parties. I wasn’t invited to many parties…

Chronic BO

In 1998, there was an explosion at a natural gas plant that left my home state without a gas supply for two weeks. This meant no one could use their gas stove or take a hot shower unless you proved you had some sort of urgent medical need.

It was early spring and still quite cold so many people contacted my company explaining why they needed access to warm gas-heated water. Elderly or disabled people with high-support needs were allocated a gas supply so they could take warm baths or showers.

The fact that I enjoy a long, warm soak after a hard day writing was not considered a valid reason. You had to have actual special needs to get your gassy access.

One customer, Mr H, wrote in requesting gas for his “disabled” teenage child. The heart-wrenching condition this kid suffered from was described by Mr H as “chronic BO”.

The kid needed urgent access to warm showers so he could wash himself and put the rest of the family out of their misery.

Yeah, I know smelly people are a torment, but I doubt a bit of a whiff emanating from your feet is the same as a bed-bound person on life support who needs a wash.

We told Mr H his offspring could wash his smelly pits and crotch with cold water like the rest of us were doing. Failing that, spray him with deodorant.

A zombie mother-in-law

When your gas bill is unexpectedly high, there could be a leak or a faulty gas meter involved. One woman, Mrs McV, called us for years claiming her bill was high because her mother-in-law routinely tampered with the gas meter.

“She’s a real witch,” said Mrs McV.

In those heady pre-smart meter days of the 1990s, meter tampering was a possibility. Only thing was, the accused mother-in-law was no longer living.

“She’s also a zombie,” explained Mrs McV.

I sat up a little straighter. This was getting interesting. I’d always wanted to meet a real-life zombie.

According to Mrs McV, a dead old lady climbed out of her grave at night, went to her daughter-in-law’s house and fiddled with the gas meter for giggles?

Hmmm.

If I was going to come back from the afterlife to torment my daughter-in-law, I’d let off lots of gassy farts around the house, especially when she had important guests. Maybe I’d also shave off one of her eyebrows, just because I could. Luckily for her, I don’t have a daughter-in-law.

I reckon Mrs McV deserved a discount on her bill just for the creativity of her story.

Augustus the parrot

Sometimes customers go through tough times. Understandably, paying their bills slips by the wayside.

In this case, we received a hand-written letter from a person, let’s call them S, who claimed they were unable to pay their gas bill as they were recovering from a traumatic childhood spent growing up in a violent household. S explained over multiple pages the abuse they were subjected to.

Throughout the years, the entire family were beaten mercilessly by a violently-tempered head of household. That sounds terrible and, yes, if a reprieve from your gas bill gives you some mental space, then let’s do that.

However, the perpetrator of this domestic violence was not one of the parents or even a human. It was the household’s pet parrot, Augustus.

You heard it, a parrot.

Not a big parrot with one of those fearsome beaks that could tear apart your gas bill. And your guts. Augustus was a tiny parakeet with a tiny beak.

He wasn’t as sweet as you might think. Augustus would flap his wings furiously and beat everyone in the room (with his wings, I assume) before flying back to his cage to brood until he erupted into another fit of great vengeance and furious anger.

I’m pretty sure Augustus was the reincarnation of the zombie mother-in-law. I hope they make a film about these characters one day.

It was a gas

Alas, my gassy days came to an end when I embarked upon a career in IT and moved as far away from customer support roles as possible.

And yet, every now and then I reminisce about my days as a woman in gas and wonder what became of those customers.

Did the smelly teenager learn the art of good hygiene?

Did the zombie mother-in-law finally find peace and leave those gas meters alone?

And did the abused family take out an intervention order against Augustus, the violent parrot? Parakeet, to be more precise.

I guess I’ll never know…

“There is a fine line between passion and gas.” Jeff Goldblum

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