In what is, rather disturbingly, becoming an ever longer string of Saturday blogs.
There is somewhile rather beautiful about the snow at the moment, it looks different to other years. i think it’s because it’s so early and the snow laden boughs are still bearing their autumn colours – it’s all rather lovely, don’t you think?…
Snow aside, today, on the whole, has been a grumpy Saturday. Everything started just fine – i managed to get up early, as planned, giving me plenty of time to get to the bank as its doors opened at 9.00. Except it turns out that my particular bank doesnt open on a Saturday until 9.30. So i trudged for a bit (don’t you just love the word ‘trudged’?), which was fairly miserable because the all but invisible layer of ice on the pavement was disagreeing horribly with my footwear. Why is it that rubberised soles – which to all intents are the grippiest things on the planet, next to velcro – are allergic to icy pavements? i kept doing that almost-but-not-quite unintentional high kick that threatens to either land you on your backside if you allow it to follow through, or disclocate your hip if you try to stay standing.
In the end, having avoided both the bruised bum and double dislocations, i elected to stand pathetically outside the bank doors, like a cat that wants to be let in out of the cold. Eventually, they let me in and a kind lady with a bright smile, wearing what appeared to be a cast off air hostess uniform (who on earth designs clothing for banks?), invited me to take a seat. Probably just as well because, if i’d remained standing for the half-hour it took to achieve absolutely nothing, i would never have been able to display my complete disdain and disinterest in all things bankologic by my carefully studied posture. After the obligatory security questions, (what’s the 3rd, 14th and 26th digit of the completely random collection of telephone numbers we asked you to supply 5 years ago?… What’s the maiden name of your second cousin’s Australian sister-in-law?), secret handshake and DNA fingerprinting, i was finally allowed an answer to my question. Granted, it wasn’t the answer i wanted to hear – “I’m sorry, I’ve no idea why we haven’t done what you asked us to over a month ago, – but look, it’s on the screen…” – this is bankolithic code for ‘Someone has cast an evil spell over your money and the runes are telling me that even Gandalf himself would struggle to make sense of these magical portents’. You know it’s serious when they turn the screen around to show you – it’s like admitting defeat and saying, ‘go on… you try and make sense of it’. Jabbing a finger at a line of text, she said, “It’s gone to Team 3!”.
Now, i’m one of those sad individuals who got talked into an account where you pay for the privilege of giving someone else your money to look after, so along with the travel insurance and other freebies, i think the very least i can expect is for my hard-earned subscription is for my instructions to be dealt with by the A-Team, not flipping Team 3! Having explained this to the kindly air hostess, she agreed to phone up the mysterious Team 3 to find out exactly what was happening. At this point, Team 3 proved themselves to share at least one of the A-Team’s traits – she couldn’t find them. Apparently, they are the only part of the bank that doesn’t work Saturdays. i gave up.
An equally frustrating moment occurred at Boots as the girl behind the counter explained, using her best Vicki Pollard expression, that she couldn’t do my prescription for me because the bit of paper i was clutching was not, in fact, the correct bit of paper that she needed to have in order to provide me with what the doctor had prescribed. i toyed with the idea of explaining to her that i could almost certainly go into the street and acquire a couple of lines of crack coccaine without encountering such officious bureaucracy, but it really wouldn’t have helped. So i just flounced out and went home.
All-in-all, a poor start to the day, but at least i was running on time – which was good because i had to take a trip to the big city to pick up a mysterious parcel that someone had tried (not very hard) to deliver earlier this week. According to the instructions i needed to ensure i had my calling card, photographic identity and a recent utility bill to prove i wasn’t an imposter. To be on the safe side, i also took my bank details (including security question answers) and prescription – maybe i’d have more luck than at Boots.
For the record, i don’t particularly enjoy driving on snow and i loathe industrial estates which, i’m sure, are designed by the same sort of people who designed the plastic film they wrap DVDs in. You know it’s there, but there’s no earthly way to get into it. Oh, and there’s always an obligatory half a sign which is of no use whatsoever in directing you anywhere other than the wrong way. Several wrong turns, diversions and slippery 37 point turns later and i finally found the place. Disappointingly, i wasn’t asked for any of my proofs of identity, despite having spent hours last night digging them out – in protest, i signed for my parcel as ‘Elvis Presley’ and promptly left the building. (PS. i got lost on the way back out too).
i won’t bore you with the rest of my day, other than to say i had to go back into town in the afternoon (and actually achieved something), only to come home to some annoying and disappointing news. However that was after two espressos, so i survived. i’m seriously considering making myself another, so perhaps i’d better stop blogging before i do, for all our sakes.
Day 06, Something you hope you never have to do.
Quite a tricky one, this. i could cheat i suppose and say i hope i never have to rub a raw onion in my eye – but that’s not really entering into the spirit of things, is it?
i hope i never have to become dependant on other people just to do the simple things in life. i never want to have a stroke, Altzheimers, or to have anything happen to me that would take away my ability to do any of the things i tend to take for granted. Just the thought of being ‘taken to the toilet’, or having someone feed me like some overgrown baby, whilst wiping the drool from my chin is enought to give me nightmares. Please promise me that if ever i end up in that position, you’ll put me in a wheelchair and tip me off the nearest cliff, but please don’t force me to cling to a life that has nothing to offer.
Is it cheating to give two answers? Not sure, but im going to anyway. The other thing i hope i’ll never have to do is identify a body.
If you have a problem, if no one else can help, and if you can find them, maybe you can hire… The A-Team.