10October2025
The stairwell of Block6, where the smell of wet umbrellas and old concrete always hangs on the landing, feels especially crisp this spring. The air is cool, yet the evenings linger in light as if the day refuses to hurry away.
The Bennetts were heading home: me, my wife Helen, and our teenage son Jamie. Each of us carries a bag of veg and a loaf, the tops sprouting long stalks of spring onions. By the front door a few drops have gathered someone must have entered without shaking the water from their umbrella.
Pinned to the door and the letterboxes are fresh flyers plain white sheets printed on a home printer. In bold red it reads: Attention! Immediate watermeter replacement required! Must be completed by the end of the week! Fines will apply! Phone to book see below. The paper has puffed up in the damp, the ink smudged at the edges. Downstairs, Aunt Liza, who lives opposite the lift, is fumbling with her mobile, a sack of potatoes in her other hand.
They say therell be fines if we dont change them, she says, worried, as we pass. I called earlier; a young bloke explained its a scheme just for our block. Maybe its time.
Dad (thats me) shrugs. Its being pushed as urgent. No one warned us before. The managing agents are silent no letters, no calls. And this scheme it sounds a bit too grandiose.
At dinner the conversation continues. Jamie pulls another slip from his school bag the same notice, folded in half and slipped into the door crack. Helen turns the paper over, eyes the date of the last meter inspection on the bill.
Were only due for a check in a year. Why the rush? she asks. And why does nobody here know this company?
I think for a moment. We should ask the neighbours who got similar flyers. And find out what this service is why theyre handing them out everywhere?
The next morning the stairwell buzzes. Voices echo up the flights someone arguing on the phone, a cluster near the rubbish chute swapping the latest gossip. Two women from flat3 share their concerns.
If we dont swap, theyll cut off the water! one exclaims, horrified. Ive got little kids!
Just then a knock sounds. Two men in matching jackets, briefcases at their sides, start making their rounds. One holds a tablet, the other a stack of papers.
Good evening, dear residents! Were here on urgent instruction to replace water meters. Anyone whose inspection is overdue faces a fine from the managing agents! The first mans voice is loud, confident, almost syrupy. The second hurries to the opposite door, pounding insistently as if trying to tick off as many flats as possible.
The Bennetts exchange a glance. I peek through the peephole unfamiliar faces, no badges. Helen whispers, Dont open. Let them move on.
Jamie walks to the window and spots a car parked in the courtyard, no markings, the driver smoking and staring at his phone. The hood reflects the street lamps and the slick asphalt after last nights drizzle.
Within minutes the two men move on, leaving damp footprints on the stair carpet. A trail of water runs along the runner by Aunt Lizas door.
By evening the whole landing hums like a beehive. Some have already signed up for the replacement, others are on the phone with the managing agents receiving vague answers. In the buildings WhatsApp group we debate: should we let these people in? Why the urgency? A neighbour from flat17 adds, Their ID looked odd just a laminated card with no stamp. When I asked for a licence they vanished.
We grow more wary. I suggest, Tomorrow well try to catch them again and demand proper documents. Ill also call the managing agents directly. Helen agrees, and Jamie promises to record the conversation.
The following morning the trio returns, same jackets, same folders, moving swiftly between floors, urging us to register at once.
I open the door halfway, chain pulled tight. Show me your documents. Give me your licence and the reference number from the managing agents, if this is a scheduled job. The first man fumbles, produces a sheet with an unfamiliar logo and slides it through the crack. The second glances at his tablet.
Were contracted to service your block Heres the contract. He mutters.
What contract? With our managing agents? Give me the name of the responsible person, the job reference and the dispatchers phone, I say calmly.
They exchange a nervous glance, mumble about penalties and deadlines. I pull out my phone and dial the managing agents right there.
Hello, could you confirm whether you sent service staff today for meter replacements? We have strangers roaming the flats. The reply is clear: no planned work, no dispatch, and any genuine technician would have been warned in writing and signed off by residents.
The men start to apologise, claiming a mixup. By then Jamie has the call recorded on his phone.
Dusk settles quickly, the landing slipping into semidarkness. A cold draft slips through an ajar window, the wind rattling the frame above. Umbrellas and shoes pile near the entrance; a wet track from damp boots leads to the waste chute. Behind the doors, neighbours voices rise, dissecting what just happened.
The climax feels almost ordinary: we realise were facing a fraud scheme masquerading as a mandatory meter swap. The solution is obvious warn everyone and act together.
The stairwell is now dim, but we dont waste time. I call Aunt Liza, the flat17 resident, and a couple from the top floor. A few more neighbours join, clutching a fresh batch of biscuits from the corner shop. Jamie turns on his recorder so anyone who cant be there can still hear what went down.
Listen up, I begin, showing the phone screen. The managing agents confirm: no work scheduled, no licence, no reference. These are impostors. A neighbour from the third floor gasps, cheeks flushing. Id already signed up! she admits. Her mother adds, We all got a call, but a genuine agency would have warned us in writing first.
The room buzzes. Some ask about fines, others worry about the personal data theyd already handed over. I calm them: Dont let anyone in tomorrow, and never pay on the spot. If they return, demand proper paperwork and call the agents on the spot. Better still, keep the door shut.
Jamie shows a sheet wed printed earlier, listing the hallmarks of a legitimate inspection: dates on bills, the companys name verified with the agents, and any fine must come from a court order, not a flyer.
We should draft a collective letter to the managing agents, letting them know these men turned up, so they can alert the rest of the block, Helen suggests. And put up a notice on the ground floor.
Everyone nods. Someone fetches a pen and an old folder. As we write the letter, a sense of solidarity spreads through the landing its easier to face a swindle together than alone.
Through the landing window I glimpse a few late walkers hurrying home under a light drizzle; the courtyard glistens with puddles under the street lamps.
The notice we produce is simple: Attention! Fraudsters posing as service technicians have been seen in the stairwell attempting unauthorised watermeter replacements. The managing agents confirm no such work is scheduled. Do not admit strangers to your flat. We laminate the paper, tape it securely to the letterbox area.
Almost everyone signs the statement; the neighbour from flat3 volunteers to deliver it to the agents tomorrow morning. The rest promise to spread the word to anyone away or on shift.
As we part, the atmosphere has shifted caution has turned into purposeful camaraderie, even a hint of humour. One neighbour jokes, Lets rename the WhatsApp group MeterGuard! I smile, thinking, At least now we know each others faces. Next time well meet over tea, not terror.
Late that night, only a couple of umbrellas remain on the radiator and a forgotten bag of groceries sits by the hall. The stairwell grows quiet; muffled voices discuss the days events or call relatives.
Morning brings change: the fraudulent flyer vanishes from every door and letterbox as quickly as it appeared. No more impostors linger in the courtyard or the landing. The caretaker finds a crumpled piece of redlettered paper tucked under a shrub, a strip of tape stuck to a door.
Neighbours gather by the lift, smiling. Everyone now knows a little more about their rights and the tricks that float around. Aunt Liza brings over homemade scones for saving us from folly, and the flat3 resident leaves a thankyou note on our door.
The courtyard is still damp from the nights rain, but yesterdays hustle fades with the last drops under the morning sun.
Back on the landing, the chat turns to news again: someone boasts about a genuine meter installed a year ago, another jokes about the service men, and a few simply enjoy the newfound trust among us.
Weve paid a price an evening spent explaining, paperwork, a few embarrassed moments but the entire block is now more vigilant and a little closer together.
Lesson learned: never let urgency rush you into opening the door to strangers; a united front is the best defence against deception.
