Sock Control

I'd like to take a break from my usual high-faluting ways, what with me styling myself the 'King of this and that', and that, and instead today focus on the kind of issues that I guess most normal people have to face now and again.

I bought some new socks just before Christmas. They were plentiful and cheap, coming in impressive quantities (five) for a low, low price. (£2.99)

Anyone who knows me and pays undue attention to my feet will probably have observed that I generally wear white socks. I don't think that this choice makes too much of a fashion statement - in fact quite the reverse, I have read of disparaging suggestions that people who wear white socks are not to be trusted at all. I'm not sure why white socks have become the focus of such hostility, but there you go, people are strange.

In any case, in my pre-Christmas shopping expedition (in Primark, no less) I happened across the sock department. Five socks for not very many pounds. And I was very much in the market for new socks, as most of my old ones have broken out in holes. Replacements are required, and the time is right - here I am, in front of socks, in a shop that sells socks (not specifically a 'sock shop' as Primark sells many other accessories for the fashion-conscious man-about-town) and I do believe that I have £2.99 in my pocket. The stars are aligned tonight. I saw them and I wanted them and I took them and I paid for them.

In the days and weeks following said purchase, I have begun wearing these socks. They are comfortable and new, but in a concession to the views of people who think that the colour of your socks determines whether you are, or are not, a goat molester, my new socks are not white. In fact, they are black, which is sort of the opposite in many ways.

And my comfortable new black socks leave me with a problem. After all, the correct means of operation for white socks is easy to understand. Put socks on, enjoy day, take socks off at end of day. Next day, put them back on again. Repeat until socks become dirty, then wash socks and start again.

With black socks... no way to tell if they're dirty. So if I'm not careful, I'm going to end up wearing the same pair of socks every day for the rest of time. With no indication as to when the socks have become dirty, how am I to know when to change them? If I were to adopt a know-nothing attitude and "just change them every month", I may end up changing my socks before they are dirty. I may end up washing my socks too often, thus endangering the monkeys and the toucans and the dolphins of the rain forest.

Conclusion: Black socks have simply not been properly thought through. I can't be the only person with this problem, surely.

Satan continues to interfere in my financial affairs

OK, spooky happening number two. Last month my egg card bill came to £192.03. I pay off the whole balance every month, and in the meantime I bought some more things. So yesterday, my whole balance was about £384. Today, the direct debit for £192.03 came out. Leaving my balance at ... £192.03! Again! Which, by the way, is twice.

This is the same egg card with which I paid for my £6.66 worth of groceries yesterday, too. There can be no other explanation for these apparently coincidental occurences. Satan is communicating with me, via my egg card.

I think I'm going to quite enjoy being 120...

Something of the Devil about me

An interesting occurence this afternoon in my local supermarket. Having gathered together ample supplies of essential bread, crisps, and chocolate biscuits, the sum total came to a somewhat devilish figure...

I suspect that all my talk about living to 120 may have been interpreted as a binding verbal commitment to the dark lord, and his interference in my purchases is an indication of his acceptance of my eternal soul. Oh well. I'm sure hell isn't nearly as bad as they say.

Meerkat Research

Being a person of immense wealth and taste, I find that my opinions are always very much in demand. So it is that my email inbox is very often graced by invitations to take part in online surveys, in exchange for valuable benefits such as competition entry, or perhaps the odd few nectar points.

One such survey I have just finished was asking all kinds of strange questions, including "What song would you like played at your funeral?" and "How long do you think you're going to live for?"

These are not your average survey questions, and I had to think a little while before answering. In the end I chose Samuel Barber's Adagio For Strings to be played upon my passing, but not any time soon, as I have decided that I will live to at least the age of 120.

If not longer!

The Further Adventures Of Changemaster

I enjoy what I might perhaps describe as a "stormy" relationship with my bank. A harsh word to use, perhaps, given that in the main, my banking generally progresses without incident or error. I manage my account online, only rarely if ever make my way into an actual branch, and phoning up the call centre to ask what happened to that cheque I wrote is a once-in-a-decade experience.

I used to get regular phone calls from my bank, asking me if I had a few moments to "review my account", by which they meant that they would spend about half an hour telling me about all the lovely products and services they sold, but which I did not want. I would humour them, explaining exactly why such offers were not suitable for me, until eventually they agreed with me and would hang up, only to call again three months later. I put up with it for a while but eventually I had them put me on the 'do not call' list, resulting in my life becoming much quieter. For a while.

The disadvantage of being on the 'do not call' list is that it's the equivalent of putting your face on a 'WANTED' poster. "Have you seen this man? £10,000 commission reward." It means that when I eventually DO need to use a branch or phone the call centre, buzzers and klaxons begin to sound, flashing red lights begin rotating in an urgent fashion, and the full force of the bank is mobilised towards the capture of the live customer who has not had his account reviewed for such a long time now that surely they can sell me some car insurance or something like that, if only they can correctly turn my bankly "interaction" into an "upsell" opportunity.

It was some time ago that, while calling the call centre to ask exactly what would happen if I wrote a cheque from an old chequebook which had the same account number but a different sort code - and the answer was "we don't know" - that their first capture attempt occured. Although entirely unable to assist with my chequely enquiries, the eager beaver call centre retriever was swift to take the opportunity to flag up, Columbo-style, that there was "just one more thing", and would I mind if he put me through to their review team.

I allowed the indignity to continue for ten minutes or so, swiftly dispatching their sales attempts, accepting it as the inevitable price of evading the bank's rigorous routine reviews, and accepting it all with good humour.

Some time around April last year, my bank phoned me. And by my bank, I mean not just my bank's call centre, but my actual branch. Such an incoming call is surely unheard of in these modern times, so I accepted the call with some interest. Would I like to come into the branch to discuss my account, they asked, and without waiting for a reply moved on to the more urgent question of what date I would be available, and perhaps I would like to come in tomorrow?

My enquiries as to whether there was something wrong were met with strenuous denials. "Oh no no no, there is nothing wrong, nothing wrong at all, Sir. We just like to keep in touch with our customers and make sure that everything is alright, whether there is anything we can help with, and we have very generous offers on loans right now, for example." I replied that I was not interested in a loan, only to find that apparently this was not correct, and that my bank possessed information which I did not, indicating to the contrary. "We can see that you've just had a loan from Egg Banking."

I will admit to raising my voice at this point, since by this point the penny had dropped and it was clear that they had been looking at my statements. I went on to explain that, actually, that large amount of money which had just dropped into my current account was a savings bond which had just matured, and that Egg Banking offered rather more than just loans, you know.

Having dismissed my branch's ineffective upsell attempts (and their telephonic interference so rudely interrupting the kingly quiet enjoyment of my cash) I bade them good day and indicated that I would look at their website and be in touch if I wanted to partake of any further products.

It was shortly before Christmas last year that a similar thing happened again. A few large deposits had hit my account (refunds from the wreckage of what was the Icelandic bank "Icesave") and once again my branch were eager to speak to me. "When would be a good time for your savings review?" And once again I skilfully avoided the review, by taking someone's mobile number and indicating that I would call if I wished to make any major investements. It made them happy and got them off the phone. And needless to say, I did not call back. Bankmaster Ant wins again.

Today, however, I really did walk into the belly of the beast. For the first time in something like 15 years, I walked back into my own branch in the centre of town. Having walked up the steps and in through the front door, once again I was back on the floor of my very own branch. A high-risk environment to be sure, and indeed, within seconds I was approached by a floor-walker. A new innovation, these appear to be roving staff whose job is to jump on any loose fish who may be careless enough to swim into the shark's open mouth. "Hello! Are you alright there?", she asked, as I was surveying the exclusive "Latest Deals" secret in-branch literature which is not publicised on their website.

"Stand back!", I cried, striking a rugged, action-ready pose intended to be somewhat reminiscent of Bruce Lee or Steven Seagal, but which may have been misinterpreted as Bruce Forsyth. "I'm just going to pay in some coins", I explained. The forces of Helpful Banking fell back, clearly destabilised by the overwhelming impression of power that I was displaying. Or alternatively, just not that interested since I had now made it clear that I was paying in coins, not money - thus confirming my physical appearance of being some kind of shambling, anorak-wearing hobo. I had bought myself some time, but the real battle was afoot.

I filled out my deposit slip and took my place in the queue. Soon, "Cashier Number Two, Please", was ready to serve me, fresh from explaining to some teenager that there was nothing wrong with his card, and that he would have to phone "Pay Pal" himself. I am sure that my transaction would be altogether far classier.

"Hello! Just a quick deposit if that's OK", I said to cashier number two please, and deposited my nicely-counted bags of 20ps, 10ps, 2ps and 1ps. Out came the scales, and there was a certain amount of weighing of my bagged coins (because clearly there are a lot of counterfeit 2p pieces around) before the usual rubber-stamp was stamped over my deposit slip. All was still well, but I knew that there would be just moments before it went down.

The deposit slip is stamped, my receipt is stamped, the deposit slip is removed from the paying in book, and fed into the computer. And now it's going to go down. From upstairs I am sure that I hear the sounds of klaxons and flashing red lights rotating in an urgent fashion. The computer has identified me. MR  -BAUER-  IS IN THE BUILDING.

The faceless automaton behind the counter is now a pawn in the machine, instructions fed to her via the automatic laser display. He is here. Now. This man is wanted at all costs. Begin phase one.

"Oh! You don't seem to be on our best current account package, Sir, I can get someone to have a chat with you about that if you'd just like to..."

"I'm sorry, I'm a little busy today."

"When would be a convenient time for you to return to the branch?"

The Helpful floor-walking drones begin to close in from behind. Swift action is needed. I choose to lure them in, then misdirect their attentions.

"I had a free trial of Advantage Gold, I really just didn't use it..."

"Oh, but we've improved it so much recently"...

Time was running out. As far as I knew, reincforcement supplies of specially-mobilised Helpful Banking advisors were on their way from the fourth floor. My business concluded, it was time to leave.

"That sounds lovely, I'll call to arrange an appointment! Er.. bye!"

I dodged and weaved past the floor-walker bots who by now had got themselves caught up in the complex one-way queueing arrangement. Out of the door, and having defeated my bank once again, I walk back onto the pavements of my fair city, to remain at large once again. Nobody gets away cleaner.

And then over the road to Argos to pick up a new catalogue. But that's probably a whole 'nother story.

Audioboo

I hear that John Grisham has written another novel. This fact had passed me by until now, but since I have now heard about it, I find myself duty bound to seek out the book.

It's easy to describe every John Grisham novel as being an identical "Plucky young lawyer takes on the bad guys and wins" romp, and indeed while this may be true, there is no harm in consistency. For indeed Mr Grisham did write two books which were not about lawyers, young or otherwise. One was "A Painted House", which was about a house. At no point were lawyers involved. At each new chapter you kind of hoped that an evil property developer would come along, twirl his moustache and throw everybody out on the street, thus attracting the class action attentions of some plucky young lawyers who just happened to be passing while on the way to the annual sock hop (well, it was a long time ago), but no. There was the house. A painted house. And no lawyers disturbed it.

There was another book as well. I think it was about baseball. I don't even remember what that one was called. I should probably look it up, out of due diligence and my overall blogger's duty to you, the blog reader.

(time passes)

Oh yes, it was about baseball. And absolutely no lawyers were involved whatsoever.

Anyway, back to the legal side of things, and Grisham is back on form with yet another identikit, yet entirely irresistable, read. That said, in these modern times, I quite prefer audiobooks. They take up much less space, and are much easier to carry around with you, as they fit onto your iPod without making it any larger at all.

And so it was that I sat back and began listening. The opening announcement begins: "Random House audio presents... The Associate, by John Grisham. Read for you by Eric Singer."

I had to stop it at that point, because those two words kind of got to me, in the stupid kind of way which normal people probably don't have to worry about. Read "for me". Wow. I'm not sure what it is about that, but it almost brings a tear to my eye. It's really rather nice to think that someone would go to all that trouble.

Then again, I might just be crazy. If so, I will be sure to appoint a plucky young lawyer to fight my case. The story could make quite the page-turner.

Rumours Of My Death Have Been Greatly Exaggerated

It's been altogether much too long since I last posted. Somehow, all kinds of nothing got in the way between me and keeping my millions and millions of readers up-to-date with all the latest news from my tiny little mind. A heinous omission, and hopefully one which this post is on the way to correcting.

Many times recently I have often thought "I must blog about that", and then I think that I can't really do that until I get around to writing the "re-establishing" article (like this) which re-introduces myself and explains where I've been all this time. The truth is that really I haven't been anywhere, although I've still been feeling a little under the weather from my entirely unpleasant experiences at the end of last year.

I did buy some more donuts in January, though, and they were very nice.

Anyway, erm, I'm back. More soon. :)

Doughnutty

There are too many doughnuts in my home. I bought some doughnuts last night, coming home from the office Christmas party. There's a little doughnut shop at the train station. They sell doughnuts, as you would expect. So, since I do not regularly enjoy doughnuts very often at all, last night I thought I would pick up some to bring home.

The hungry traveller can buy a selection box of the variously-topped doughnuts, which seems very convenient. Looking at the price list, I see that if you buy one box, you can get a second box at a discount. This seems like good value for money. After all, doughnuts are expensive. Good, but expensive.

What I did not realise, not being a seasoned doughnut purchaser, is that a box of doughnuts is not six doughnuts, it is twelve. Which, by the way, is more. This means that the second box of doughnuts is also not six, it is another twelve, making a total of 24 doughnuts. Plus, as it was late at night, because they would otherwise have gone to waste, because I have a nice smile, or perhaps because they thought I was homeless, they gave me a third box on the house. And a free bag to put them all in.

This is 36 doughnuts, which, by the way, is too many for one person to eat in a sensible timeframe, and a full three times as many as the already too many 12 doughnuts I had been expecting. The result being that I have 30 doughnuts in my fridge (yes I know, I'm a bad boy) still waiting to be eaten. I have a feeling that the remainder may go hard - or off - before I reach them. What is a boy to do?

In recognition of my valued custom and my single-handed attempt at proping up the doughnut economy, they gave me a voucher, which entitles me to 12 more free doughnuts, if I buy another 12 doughnuts in January. By that time, I expect to have learnt my lesson - that even 12 doughnuts is too many doughnuts to purchase at once, let alone buy 12 get 12 free. Either that, or I will have had my Christmas enlivened by one or more heart attacks. In which case, I will probably be in no mood for doughnuts, unless I have to spend any more time in hospital with a "Nil By Mouth" sign over my bed. Which, by the way, is how I spent a couple of days a few weeks ago - but that's another story which I'll tell you later.

King Of Postage 4

Another vigorous and successful eBay session at the weekend means that I have some packages to post. Most of this weekend's sales fit easily into jiffy bags and therefore straight into the nice little postbox at the end of my road, but when things get larger and more complicated, inevitably it eventually becomes time for the King of Postage to pay another visit to the Post Office.

So it was today that I braved the icy cold outdoors, trekking across land and sea to make my way to my local office of post. Coming indoors I found it not only to be surprisingly warm, but full of people. In marked contrast to my previous visit, no less. Clearly they were not expecting me, but no matter. I took my place in the queue, observing the ordinary people all around.

Amongst the ten people ahead of me, old ladies, large burly men, people looking dangerously like they wanted to renew their car tax, a tattooed skinhead, and a lady with glasses and crazy hair not entirely unlike my own.

What is more, this lady knew her stuff. She had multiple packages, wrapped up in those blue metallic mailing bags so favoured by eBay sellers. I know, because I had some myself, not so long ago. Obviously a professional.

Behind me, I am distracted by the sounds of sellotape. Someone has clearly not finished wrapping their item, and is finishing off the job in the queue behind me. Maybe they had to come to the post office to pick a suitably-sized jiffy bag off the shelves, and are wrapping things up while they wait. A serious breach of etiquette, not least because it's rude to use a jiffy bag before you have paid for it. The poor fool. But the sounds of sellotaping continue, on and on and on, such that I am forced to turn my head and casually regard the scene unfolding behind me.

It is a horror show. Someone appears to be trying to post a box of chocolates, by wrapping it in multiple layers of sellotape. Round and around, over and over, until it might be in a postable condition. This is amateur packing at best, and I am not impressed. Then I notice how the package is being labelled. The destination address is written on a piece of lined paper, also being furiously sellotaped to the box. Lined paper! Handwritten addresses, on LINED PAPER, being sellotaped around a box!

It is an INSULT. An insult to the King of Postage, directly behind me, in my Royal presence. A lesser man would have objected to such shoddy packaging behaviour, but I maintained my regal stateliness and instead turned back to regarding the crazy hair lady in front of me.

This lady transports her packages in a large striped laundry bag. Oh my. I've done this in my time as well. I look at the address labels on the packages. Handwritten, in a bold but clear handwriting style. Nice touch. And... wait! What is this! She has Royal Mail Recorded Delivery stickers ALREADY ON HER ITEMS! A challenger to the King of Postage! Urgently, I scan her packages for stamps... none there. I maintain superiority, but it is a close fight with a well-prepared foe.

As we shuffle closer to the counters, the lady steps to one side. "You can go ahead of me, I need to go to the window." Aha! A false move! There is no need to wait for the window if you have packages - the main counter can accomodate you as well. I graciously step ahead and make my way to the counter, where I hand over my multiple packages which already have stamps on.

I also have an item to send by Special Delivery, so to give the ladies a treat I decide that I will allow them to process this item as if I were a normal person who did not know how to pre-prepare an SD package. Shiny labels are retrieved from counter drawers, and affixed to my package. The address is checked and is found to be correct - as if there would be any doubt. It'll be £5.05 then, please, and the King is ready with exact change, King-style, because that is how we roll.

I wonder if the nice counter lady could even have been aware that she was not just serving the King of Postage, but also the mighty international Changemaster, lord of all small coins and the necessary 5p pieces which are such a large part of a £5.05 transaction.

Our business transacted, we exchanged mutal thanks and I ventured back out into the icy wind and snow.

"Hail to the King", I am sure I heard someone say, although it might have been lost in the hoo-hah and outrage when the crazy sellotape lady tried to post her box of chocolates.

Coming Soon

I've been a little negligent in not updating my blog recently. Anyone reading this would think I've been sick for weeks and weeks! Actually that's not too far from the truth, but I'm much better now (thank-you for asking) and I'll write lots more about that soon.

I've just been making my arrangements at work about the huge amount of holiday time that I have to use up before the end of the year. I've managed to transfer some days to next year, but I'll still need to spend most of December on holiday. Which should at least leave me with lots of time to write more blog entries. And who wouldn't be delighted by that?

Back soon with more. :)