Is it me? I seem to have a fucked-up pound sign burned onto my forehead this week. Couple of days ago, a credit card I thought was dead rose up to bite me in the ass with a letter saying I'd missed payments.
Cue an hour on the phone talking to fuckwits, and all because a payment I made as a one-off last year had been taken, silently, a second time this year, giving me a balance I knew nothing about.
Today, I tried to take some of my money from my business Paypal account and transfer it to my business bank account.
"Hmm..." said Paypal. "We're not sure about you. You could be an axe murderer for all we know..."
Paypal took my money and is pondering whether I can have it. Still...some twelve hours later. When it told me I could be an axe murderer, it said it might take four hours to make up its mind. I can only assume it's making up three of its minds right now.
This evening, I was happily working along when the phone rang.
"This is your bank," said the brusque guy on the other end. "We need to speak to you urgently."
"OK," I said. "Well...I'm here."
"Need to give us your details to clear security," said the charm school graduate.
I gave him some. They weren't good enough for him. "You've failed security. Call us back immediately. It's urgent," he said, then hung up.
Cue another bloody hour, checking my accounts for fraud, searching through folders for passwords, calling them back and talking to people.
Turns out it was all down to the fact that I'd used a card to buy flowers for my brother-in-law, who has a birthday today. Suddenly, I appeared to be 3500 miles away, hence immediate alarm bells and the clanging down of jail cell bars in the office of my mind.
Tomorrow, you lot have to give me a freakin' break and let me have my own bloody money, alright? It's the law!
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