Tuesday: my lunchtime Post Office queue* induced fury was offset by the euphoria of being able to touch-type lackadaisical in an email without any errors, and the miracle of my metabolism having somehow managed to convince my body to shed a pound over the festive season, despite rollercoaster dieting which lurched between living on dust and water and being so hungry I wanted to pluck fat seagulls out of the sky and eat them raw and eating my way through six packs of Magnums (assorted flavours).
It’s possibly the first time I’ve ever had occasion to type the word lackadaisical; it was in relation to my apparent gung-ho approach to personal online security which resulted in some fraudulent actitivy on my bank account. Some bloody bastard had ordered something costing £174.45 from Asda, of all bloody places. If you’re going to plunder my bank account, at least do it with a flourish. A lorryload of Jo Malone candles for example, could fairly rack up a hefty bill and make a dent in my measly coffers. Or 1500 Marlboro Lights and 40 Scratchcards. Or a pound of saffron. Or an ounce of the finest caviar and some edible gold leaf. Or 500 Toblerones and 60 Terry’s Chocolate Oranges with which to make that new hybrid Toblerorange thing which is doing the rounds on Facebook. On the Tigerbaps Hierarchy of Needs the Toblerorange takes up about 80% of the triangle. Bingewatching Transparent on Amazon Prime is the other 20%.
Luckily, thanks to my recent financial coaching, undertaken in an attempt to overcome my financial ermmm how shall I put this…’imprudence’ I spotted the fraudulent activity and phoned the bank pronto.
Apparently this time of year is rife with bank fraud. Ne’er-do-well fraudsters buying large kitchen appliances right, left and centre apparently, on some hapless citizen’s dollar eg me. It pissed me right off and I hadn’t even had my first Nespresso of the day.
In other news worthy of a mention – I took Tucker out for an evening stroll round the parish about 645pm and some complete shithouse DELIBERATELY drove at me through a puddle as we walked along Stakeford Street, which soaked me from the waist down – and I mean soaked – I squelched back to the house with Tucker looking like a massive rat on a lead, after I’d shouted FUCKING ARSEHOLE at the silver car (registration starting SN) at the top of my lungs like a fishwife. I was going visiting too. I ended up going out for the evening in my slippers.
I hope karma is a thing.
It’s not been the best day, but one remains upbeat.
Today’s song from my past heard and enjoyed – Blow Monkeys, Digging Your Scene.
*Dumfries is ridiculously lacking in Post Offices. Wasn’t like that in my day. I was a Postal Officer from 1978 to 1989 although I was hungover from 1978 to 1986 so can’t really count that because I probably just turned up in my wash ‘n’ wear perm and hid under the counter nursing a headache, pretending to have dropped my pen and taking hours to find it. I once turned up wearing two different shoes. True story.