A Turn at the Meter

I wasn't about to sit in the draught while Harold hoards the shillings for the gas. I shimmied behind the scullery door right up to the black cast-iron meter bolted to the damp whitewashed brick. The padlock on the cash box was sturdy enough to break a tooth, but the coin-return chute was an entirely different matter. I wedged the tapered jaw of my trusty spanner straight up the chute and gave it a sharp, spiteful wiggle. With a dry rattle and a puff of ancient lime dust, a thick brass meter token dropped clean into my palm, notched along the rim. Harold can freeze all winter; this beauty isn't seeing his stove.