Two weeks ago, for about an hour and a half, I was very seriously considering giving up my job and moving in with my Gran & living off the State, as my uncle did. What would be easier than living a simple existence, with boiled spuds every night for tee & freshly ironed underpants at my fingertips? I could have groceries delivered over the internet and wouldn't have to deal with annoying smoking parents ever again. Mom talked me out of it. But I have been amazed to examine just how much of my time outside of work has been wasted by having to take care of issues or problems that weren't my fault. I still haven't had a resolution to my bank's recent cock-up, though I received a letter in the post today saying they received my letter of complaint and are "looking into it." I had to arrange for two sets of repairmen to come to fix the broken light fixtures in the kitchen and the weak floorboards in my bedroom (which required shifting furniture twice when no one showed up the first time). I've had to follow up on two missing DVDs from my DVD rental-by-mail programme. I've had to call my mobile phone service to complain about system problems with my mailbox. I had to ring the city council to find out why my rubbish wasn't picked up on my allotted day, for the second week in a row. I had to track down and order a replacement power adapter for an ancient (but still entirely useful and usable) Dell laptop after wacko electricity in this house fried the old one. All that's just in the last week. Who has time for TV, reading or going out? The good news is that, while trying to discover why my Council Tax wasn't automatically debited from my bank account last month as it has been every month for the last ten months, I found out that the yearly council tax is taken out in ten monthly payments, not twelve, and that I have 200 pounds I didn't think I'd have, as a result. The bad news is this year's council tax bill arrived today, and it's gone up 50 pounds. I had a dream last weekend. I was in the DC metro system, at the Virginia Square metro, and it was after work. As I was waiting on the platform with dozens of other potential passengers, a brown beat-up station wagon drove down the track in front of us, drove up on to the far platform, came across a little bridge at the entrance to the tunnel, drove down the platform toward us and then back onto the track, perpendicular to any soon-to-arrive train. "Oh no! She's not going ..." someone said, and the woman driver, a ferocious sneer on her face, leaned out the window and said "oh yes I am!" At that point the power in the station was cut and emergency red lamps came on and we all knew we had to make our way out of the station. The escalators turned into non-moving people movers which led to the surface at a steep angle, but my companion (some random man) and I weren't in any rush or panic. Outside, I found myself wearing Victorian ladies clothing (which I never have and never will in real life) and it was pouring cats on dogs. My companion waved a car down, something very tiny, and indicated we should get in. Indignant, I rejected the idea, not wanting to crush my delicate outfit. My companion hopped onto the back bumper of a passing bus, indicating he'd be back with a Taxi. At that point, Elton John showed up in a silver Daimler and told me to get in. David Furnish was seated behind him, some kid I assumed was related to one of the two of them was in the other front seat, and the Queen was in back. The kid passed around some sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, and Elton read us all a birthday card that David had given him. The Queen and I had a nice chat. We drove into an area of Clarendon that was quite run down, with no paved roads & lots of mud and tin shacks. A large horse, bigger than the car, was startled by our approach. Elton easily maneuvered the Daimler into his garage, and we all got out. I knew I was to make my own way home, but I caught up to the Queen as she entered a cafe and stumbled over my words as I tried to tell her what a nice time I'd had and would it be alright if I "called on her" some time. She said, firmly, "Another time," and made her way to her table, where Donald Rumsfeld was waiting. Not wanting to bother her any more, I ordered a coffee and a coke, which was delivered to my table by an asian waitress. "Fifty-six pounds, please." I was astounded and asked to see the menu as I wanted to double-check the prices. A guy behind the bar, in a grey t-shirt with headphones around his neck, flipping through CDs, turned and said, "This is the Grand Cafe. If you need to see a Menu you sure as hell don't belong here."
9:19:00 PM