Feeling a little negative
I don't know quite when I broke down irretrievably. Perhaps it was the moment I realised I'd lost all the pin numbers to the new bank accounts I'd set up, in particular, the one where I lodged the proceeds from the sale of House of Pants. I used to believe that any bugger could get his slimy little hands on my savings, which is why I've never had internet banking. I've debunked that one now. Since I've opened an internet account, not even I can get my hands on my own money. Now that's what I call secure. It will be some comfort when I'm at the far side of the world unable to buy a house because I can't access my own cash.
It's an inopportune time to admit it but I really don't like change. I am kicking for all I'm worth against every bizarre and unreasonable ritual imposed on the absurd number of service providers that modern living requires. I spat the dummy big time at the 'communications' provider who insists that you inform it 'in writing' of your intention to dispense with its services. 'No, no, no', insisted I in distinctly pants tones, 'you are a phone company and I am phoning you to tell you that I no longer require your phone service. We have never done anything 'in writing' before'. Of course I do intend to write to Quills Direct in my finest copperplate script to aprise them of my departure. It's only fitting.
I have lost and found the following items at least a dozen times this week,
- Travellers' cheques
- American dollars (sorry but they do look an awful lot like ads for American Express cards)
- Memory stick (making them so small is a great idea until you have to put them in the company of a great many much bigger things)
- Clean under garments (although not so much 'lost' as 'exhausted')
Never before have I been so stressed. I'm more frazzled than poor Miss Quested and I'm two days away from arriving in India. What will I be like when I get there? I can't even open my travel notes now for fear that I've forgotten something crucial. Better I don't find that out until I get there at this juncture. What is wrong with me? I've never been like this before about travelling, or about anything really. And if all that wasn't enough, blow me if Barney didn't wake up from his cryogenic suspension thinking he was Mel flipping Gibson (Mel, will you shut the fuck up!) Now I've got to work out how to get him through India and into Australia. It's going to be tricky as I doubt the Australian authorities will buy our cover story of being on a promotional tour for Forever Young 2.
Mr T is packing for Havana as I type. He's finally dragged himself away from Fantasy Football for long enough for me to get this post down. He's ironing fourteen shirts - for a week! I've got four to last me a month - all proudly unironed. We went to a wonderful New Year's Eve party in a fabulous apartment overlooking the Thames and, for once, I had a good view of the fireworks. Just when you leave, the city finally decides to invite you in to gaze at what you'll be missing.
What will become of me in this state? I can't even have a breakdown because it would invalidate my travel insurance. The best I can hope for is to contract yellow fever and disguise my hysterical outbursts as delirium.
Things can only get worse...