This is a right quare week, and no mistake. Not bad, just odd. This morning started with very late buses and stress that I’d be late for one of my most regular VO clients: you don’t wanna do that. I made it, just in time, but made a note to myself that as and from today Christmas will make everything mental and I should remember that. There will be pointless queues for everything, and hassle over shiny things that’ll look like tat in 5 week’s time. I decided I would opt out and come straight home when I’d finished work.
So I didn’t. I didn’t do what I’d just said or decided. Just off Oxford Circus or (Crazy Promotion Punching Land as you may as well call it til mid January) I went into some places. I was so sorry that I had.
First, the Post Office. It was full of angry, unhappy people trying to send messages of joy and good cheer around the world. I didn’t like to point out the Internet (just, you know, point it out) or the fact that if you’ll be seeing someone anyway, it’s silly and wasteful to send a card. Just tell them they’re great and pour them a drink. Done. But here they were, already glowering at me that I was only queuing for the Travel Money section. I’m not going anywhere: I’m coming back. I had my gig money from Scotland in my wallet, powerless to do anything south of the border except remind me of where I’ve been, and that Scottish banks have more design money than sense. I was just going to exchange them at the PO’s highly publicised travel money section. The queue was short, so it wasn’t long before Useless Information Man 1 at Useless Counter Number 5 (the travel money one) told me that the Post Office doesn’t offer direct swaps. It does commission free exchanges on exciting things like Euro, but try to give them sterling with funny pictures on and it’s all just too mundane. I would have to go to a bank.
I went to a bank. It was fuller of people and emptier of clerks than the Post Office. I finally got to the travel money window there, and was told that – while most of my Scottish notes were valid, albeit powerless – one of my £20s didn’t exist. It was all plasticky and purple and new, but I knew it’d come straight from a bank and was fine. But according to Barclay’s, it didn’t exist. This was very exciting as I’d been spending the same design in Scotland with no problems. It really is a magical place. But no, down here in England, this £20 didn’t exist because it wasn’t in The Book. The 2009 Book. (I was shown The Book. It’s a book banks have with drawings of money in it. I wish I had one.)
There followed a 20 minute call to somewhere (Brigadoon?) asking if Clydesdale Bank had issued a new £20 note. Well, hahahahahaha! (It was really funny, apparently; that’s why it was taking so long.) They only had! I wasn’t a liar and Scotland was real and I could have 20 actual real pounds for it and did I bank with Barclay’s and they shouldn’t give me the money if I didn’t but they would just this one time. Hahahahahaha!
If she hadn’t been so lovely and laughy, she might have been in danger of my wrath. As it was, she was a really nice, thorough woman who simply hadn’t heard of Scotland. I decided not to let it get to me.
Got home. Had lunch. Got asked by a TV station if I’d ever used Botox. Two sides to this: (a) it’s a compliment – saying you look so smooth-skinned there must be toxins afoot. (b) it’s not a compliment – it’s a suggestion that maybe, at your age, you should consider it. But I have plenty of opinions on it (especially that it’d be extremely hurty and I’m much, much too much of a coward to have it) so bring it on.
It’s only half past three. Whatever next?
Ran a marathon. Did you? If not please sponsor me in aid of the Alzheimer’s Society here. Thank you!
