The Lengths I'll Go To For Pear Cider

What's this, what's this? Twenty minutes to spare; twenty glorious, golden minutes where no-one is asking me to do anything, check anything, talk to anyone, read anything, or do the monkey dance again. For the last week, the only such moments have been the ones I've spent hiding in the toilet.

I should explain.

Regular readers may remember that Witchypoo has recently returned to full-time work at fairly short notice, leaving an overlap period before I reduce my own commitments (of which there are three weeks remaining). This was deemed to be A Good Thing because it will give us back a little cash float, a luxury we have not enjoyed for some months, but the crossover was never going to be a comfortable time. This isn't simply because we are both working now (lots of couples do that) but because my writing career is slowly gearing up, there's the microholding* to run and then there's the Transition Town stuff.**

Which is why it's been a bit of a strain to have Witchypoo away in Latvia for a week.

Late last week, WP's work discovered that they had an opportunity to send someone to a conference in Latvia, and only WP was available. After a hasty conference with me she agreed, but there was only enough time to arrange travel and a hotel before she was whisked away, leaving me with two children and more french beans than I know what to do with. Crucially, there was no time to arrange any currency - but no worries, she would use her cashcard in Riga, right? Right?

Wrong. The Rigan*** cash machines turned up their collective noses at WP's card, leaving her stranded with only £2.37 and a second-hand shirt button with which to negotiate a foreign country. A panicked telephone call and some frantic work from me revealed that the attempts at a foreign transaction had triggered a security lockdown on her cards, despite the fact she had discussed the trip with them beforehand, and they would like to speak directly to her on our home telephone number. Now, please.

Which was tricky, because as previously discussed SHE WAS IN LATVIA.

All was sorted out - eventually - but this is the sort of situation that the phrase 'institutionally moronic' was made for. The bank may be made up of thousands of well-trained, pleasant and helpful staff - but taken as a whole it behaves like the thick kid who picks his nose in the back of the class.

Still, at least I have Latvian pear cider.




*It's too small to be a smallholding, but I hesitate to use the word 'vegetable plot' because then people think I'm just messing about with a few runner beans in the summer.

**Which is, incidentally, your fault. Collectively. Somebody left a comment ages ago expressing the confident hope that I'd be in on the kill when our local Transition Town Initiative started up, so I went along to a meeting - and given that I can't keep my mouth shut even when underwater, the rest was inevitable.

***I can't help thinking the Rigans were a race in Star Trek TNG at some point looking, as all other alien races did, completely human apart from a single-piece latex facial prosthesis. Deanna Troy probably attempted to thought-shag one of them, which distracted everyone from the fact that they were cutting up and attempting to steal the Enterprise piece by piece. It was only when Data, with his keen eye for detail, noticed that his comfy chair had gone that the plot was discovered, and he only realised that because his cat had taken to sleeping on his wig. The Rigans were confronted, phasered thoroughly and tractored until they were sore, and the day was saved. Huzzah! Er, but I digress. Again.