It’s one of those days. You know, a day when things conspire to annoy and irritate. So I needed to deposit some money into my bank account. We have two accounts and my personal account is for all my income tax money, so when the taxman-cum-highwayman comes knocking I can handover the goods sharpish. So I trudge in the damp and the drizzle to the bank and put in my card into the ATM machine, type in my pin, get the envelope, put the cheque in the envelope, type in the amount and then press ENTER. The sodding ATM rejects my card. As a result, I decide to deposit the cheque in our joint account with no problem. I look at my bank card and discover that it is out-of-date. It had expired in September, but somehow the bank didn’t think it was important enough to inform me of this or send me a new card for my account. I look at the bank queue, realise that I don’t have the obligatory ID to deal with the bank (you know, passport, driving licence, utility bill, vial of freshly drawn piss for toxicology reports, a blood sample for DNA anaylsis, etc), so I head outside, vowing to myself to return later, fully equipped.
So I decide to console myself with a visit to Woolworths. There were no CDs that I liked the look of, so I decided to purchase the new Star Wars III DVD (I know, I know. It is a guilty pleasure – I enjoy that sci-fi dross, OK?). I am feeling a little better because at least the journey resulted in a little bit of retail therapy. The guy behind the counter doesn’t give me a bag to put my DVD in, so I mutter something about service and retreat, the sealed DVD in my pocket, protected from the drizzle.
After 15 minutes of walking, I am back home, coffee in hand, homemade chicken and stuffing sandwich at the ready and I am ready to have a little preview of my new purchase. I rip the protective polypropylene sleeve and open the case. There are NO DVDs inside.
Oh well, it looks like I’ll be returning to the bank and Woolworths this very afternoon. Whoopsie fucking do!
Meanwhile, it is getting closer to Guy Fawkes Night and the locals are letting off rockets and other noisy fireworks. Alex the Wonderdog isn’t a particular fan and has been seeking protection in the small space under my legs between me and the computer table. It’s a tight squeeze, meladdio.

“I hate those pesky fireworks”

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