The morning after a gin-a-thon of olympic proportions, I headed straight to my phone with the usual mixture of dread and fear which follows such a binge (other binges are available) and joy of joys, no late night babbling crap text messages had I sent.
There was however several voice mails and a text. Not from anyone fun or mocking me about the night before – from my bank. Never a good thing. Firstly you have the worry that it isn’t actually your bank, but an evil group of fishermen ready to steal your identity by the mere opening of the text, and then the second, worse fear that it actually IS your bank. For someone who spent several years having an allergic reaction to opening any post, the call from the bank is never a good thing.
So it transpired that while I was happily discussing the finer points of whether you can really tell the difference between some yellow pack brand and Bombay Sapphire, someone was trying to steal money from my account. From Canada! Following the centuries old tradition of racial stereotyping, I had tended to think that Canadians wouldn’t be big on that sort of thing- it’s not what they are aboot.
Sadly for them, my bank is tighter than a (insert your own appropriate simile here), and they got nowt. Sadly for me however, in this swiftly shrinking world of instant communication, you can’t get a bank card from England in less than a fortnight. Jesus wept. In the days of yore a simple man in a horse and cart could do it quicker, on a track, with scurvy.
So as my account is in lockdown, thank goodness for The Bank of Husband. Or maybe not. Money is one of the most common topics to cause rows in relationships, and having to ask for cash all the time does manage to unsettle the balance of power. Not that there ever is one, obviously, ahem… I feel like I am back in the fifties, where hubby holds the purse strings and I pootle about in a bra that would take your eye out and a pencil skirt, only without the decent bra and a crippling unease of asking for a few sovs gov, just for groceries and that, sir…
But you know what, who cares? This is a #firstworldproblem (quite entertaining twitter thing). A homeless man died in Dublin earlier in the week from the cold (not in any way entertaining, totally disgraceful, in this day and age kind of thing).
So I will suck it up, and relish this hark back to pre-feminist times, because what do I really have to worry about, as the gin (quality, you can tell the difference) is still flowing and I am not on the streets.
As predicted the running schedule is running on a low. Its cold and dark. And I’m mostly hungover thanks to the Bank of Husband.