I’m thinking of turning to disaster novels… based on my life.
Everybody hates Monday morning. I don’t usually because it means all the factory fodder have gone off to their daily toil and I get some peace. Not this week.
On Monday I had a dentist’s appointment. Routine check-up, twenty quid, thank you, see you in six months. But a filling had gone AWOL during the last month or two, and replacing that bumped the bill up to over fifty nicker.
There’s something strange about paying people large amounts of money to cause you pain… or maybe not, depending on your inclination.
Tuesday saw the dog limping like Long John Silver, minus the parrot. He’d caught his toe somewhere, bang goes another forty quid at the vet’s. Wednesday I tried to pay a credit card bill online and the system chucked me out when I tried to confirm the payment. Extended credit on the mobile, which lets me ring high-priced, geographic numbers, was low, so I had to make a hasty visit to the bank to pay said bill.
We’re away to the Canary Islands next week, so yesterday, aside from having my corns hacked, everything was going smoothly, until I got to picking up foreign currency, only to find that the pound has sunk lower than an MPs morals when it comes to voting for an unjustified, inflation-busting pay rise. I’m sure I’d have got a better rate if I’d changed groats and duckets for euros.
I got home with the foreign dosh stashed safely in my wallet, only to learn that Her Indoors has blathered our brown, leather settee with black permanent marker ink. Worse, she tried to get it off with Vim.
“Why didn’t you just use nitric acid?” I demanded.
“I didn’t know I could,” she replied tartly.
Today it’s Friday. (Trust me. Check the calendar and you’ll see I’m right.) Aside from chasing up cleaning materials that might remove the offending in stain, the car goes in for service, the cases still need weighing, and I need a haircut.
I also need another life.
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