Bound to happen

Wednesday October 12, 2005

I was in Somerfield’s, in Spilsby, when my new phone rang. First time for everything, I suppose. Took a couple of burbles for me to twig that it was mine but the wonderful, completely readable display on the front told me it was Graham calling.

“What’s up, doc?”

“Do you know the post code of our last house?”

“Good heavens, no. What do you take me for?”

“Well, how about the address? I’ve completely forgotten it.”

I kicked myself, gently, because I had completely overlooked the bank’s need to know the applicant’s residential particulars for the past three years when opening a new account. Anyway, being careful not to think too hard and so lose grip on the group of brain cells that contain it, I rattled the address off fine, asked if he wanted me to walk over to join him at the bank and, when he said no, rang off and got on with my shopping.

Then, after stowing my stuff in the car, I wandered over to the bank and sat in a nice comfortable chair to wait in the fiercely discomforting blank stare of at least five CCTV cameras.

“Done?” I asked as he came out of the private interview room.

“Yup. I got a brand new, fully grown up bank account. I’m a proper citizen once more.”

“Well done. Welcome to Tony Blair’s Brave New World. You wanna celebrate with breakfast in the Cornhill Café?”

“Oh, no thank you. Let’s go home.”

Back home I did us a nice late breakfast of poached eggs on toast. That done we suddenly and simultaneously reached the point where the wearies hit us. The strain of the long, lonely summer had caught up with us at last. Big time.

“I think I need a bit of a nap,” I said.

“Me too.”

Bound to happen, of course.

 

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