I have been babysitting. Well, they aren't, strictly speaking , babies, and I didn't really sit on them. The mites belong to my charming friends on the Wirral. The boy is eleven, and may be a genius. The girl is four and either heading for international superstardom, or they will re-introduce the death penalty just for her. It could go either way at present. There is also a low-maintenance fish, not even given to that disconcerting habit of leaping out of the bowl gasping and flailing,which I have encountered in other, rowdier fish; and which always causes me to have palpitations. In fact, after suicidal fish has been restored to bowl or tank, it recovers itself immediately, and continues to calmly circle the bowl once more, with an expression of "What?" on its face more usually seen in the male teenager. I, on the other hand, am a wreck, and need nicotine and strong coffee before becoming soignee again.Which proves, to my great relief, that I am a more sensitive and evolved creature than a goldfish.It's not much to show for decades of higher education, but it is SOMETHING.
Anyway, the intellect of even the most limited member of the Plankton family;the one that all the other Planktons sigh over and say "Well, he's got a Very Nice Nature", effortlessly soars above that of people who deise telephone systems used by banks. As I discovered when, thinking to myself " I am babysitting. My favourite television programme "The Walking Dead", has yet to start. I have read everything in the house which does not concern Peppa Pig or advanced calculus.I shall ring my bank, who offer a "24/7 service", and discuss some amusing discrepancies which I have noted on my statement". Why did I do this, and not choose instead to attack my nose with a cheesegrater? The relaxation thus afforded would have been of a superior quality.
First of all, they refused to believe who I was. I was obliged to prove this by producing a series of numbers,which I had previously selected without telling myself what they were. To make it more interesting, they were to be produced in a different order from anything that might have made any sense.My memorable name wasn't, it appeared. By the end of this process, I had locked myself out of my bank account, possibly for ever. I could only get it back by ringing an expensive-sounding helpline, who asked me for a further series of numbers.
I gave up, resolving to get the eleven-year-old maths genius on it the next morning. As I had some life left to kill, I then tried to call Royal Mail. Since moving into Downturn Abbey, I have only occasionally received post,and that mostly of an unwelcome nature.It seems that my bijou apartment has not been recognised on their system. It is small,but not that small. I do not live, for instance, in an acorn. After having held the telephone receiver against my ear for so long that both became white-hot, I was repeatedly advised by a Royal Mail Voice to not bother, and to jolly well use the website instead, as that would be cheaper for them. I am not entirely a Luddite. I gave it a go. However, my complaint was recorded on an unconvincing-looking form.. even as I clicked on the telling word "Submit", I had the strong impression that I had been electronically ignored.
After several more postless days, I tried again, to find that the website directed me to the telephone number that directed me to the website. Heigh-ho, I will call the number of my local sorting office, so I will. They have a more fundamentalist approach to protect themselves from the public; they simply do not answer the phone. I imagine one of the burlier sorting men sits on it, possibly enjoying the vibration, as it rings its silly head off.
So if any of you have been wondering where I have been, I have been doing that.But I am better now, and resolved in future only to engage in transactions where I can speak to a human in real time,preferably face-to-face. Jean-Paul Grump famously observed that "Hell is other people". Oh, I KNOW, Jean-Paul, you lovable old French existentialist. But all our "Utilities" and such-like seem determined to remove them from the business model, so I think we should resist,if only out of perversity. If we collectively insist on dealing with people and people alone, we might get some back in jobs again one day,and get a better quality of irritation.
Anyway, the intellect of even the most limited member of the Plankton family;the one that all the other Planktons sigh over and say "Well, he's got a Very Nice Nature", effortlessly soars above that of people who deise telephone systems used by banks. As I discovered when, thinking to myself " I am babysitting. My favourite television programme "The Walking Dead", has yet to start. I have read everything in the house which does not concern Peppa Pig or advanced calculus.I shall ring my bank, who offer a "24/7 service", and discuss some amusing discrepancies which I have noted on my statement". Why did I do this, and not choose instead to attack my nose with a cheesegrater? The relaxation thus afforded would have been of a superior quality.
First of all, they refused to believe who I was. I was obliged to prove this by producing a series of numbers,which I had previously selected without telling myself what they were. To make it more interesting, they were to be produced in a different order from anything that might have made any sense.My memorable name wasn't, it appeared. By the end of this process, I had locked myself out of my bank account, possibly for ever. I could only get it back by ringing an expensive-sounding helpline, who asked me for a further series of numbers.
I gave up, resolving to get the eleven-year-old maths genius on it the next morning. As I had some life left to kill, I then tried to call Royal Mail. Since moving into Downturn Abbey, I have only occasionally received post,and that mostly of an unwelcome nature.It seems that my bijou apartment has not been recognised on their system. It is small,but not that small. I do not live, for instance, in an acorn. After having held the telephone receiver against my ear for so long that both became white-hot, I was repeatedly advised by a Royal Mail Voice to not bother, and to jolly well use the website instead, as that would be cheaper for them. I am not entirely a Luddite. I gave it a go. However, my complaint was recorded on an unconvincing-looking form.. even as I clicked on the telling word "Submit", I had the strong impression that I had been electronically ignored.
After several more postless days, I tried again, to find that the website directed me to the telephone number that directed me to the website. Heigh-ho, I will call the number of my local sorting office, so I will. They have a more fundamentalist approach to protect themselves from the public; they simply do not answer the phone. I imagine one of the burlier sorting men sits on it, possibly enjoying the vibration, as it rings its silly head off.
So if any of you have been wondering where I have been, I have been doing that.But I am better now, and resolved in future only to engage in transactions where I can speak to a human in real time,preferably face-to-face. Jean-Paul Grump famously observed that "Hell is other people". Oh, I KNOW, Jean-Paul, you lovable old French existentialist. But all our "Utilities" and such-like seem determined to remove them from the business model, so I think we should resist,if only out of perversity. If we collectively insist on dealing with people and people alone, we might get some back in jobs again one day,and get a better quality of irritation.
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