Wednesday 4th January. Santander sucks.

Stumbled into the loo at 6am this morning to discover an African Pygmy Hedgehog staring at me from the bath tub.

 I looked at the hedgehog.

The hedgehog looked back at me.

Went back and lay on my bed for fifteen minutes with my hands pressed tight against my eyes, worried sick that I was seeing hedgehogs again.

Turned out Annabelle was giving her pet Beatrix an early bath and hadn’t wanted to turn the light on in case she gave Beatrix a bright-light-fright.

Given, I patiently explained, the fact that she was already guilty of chucking a hedgehog into a bath full of water and going off to leave it to ‘soak’ while she watched Sponge Bob Square-pants, the light being on or off was a pretty moot point in the huge spectrum of situations that might scare the shit out of a very small hedge-creature.

The Teenager stuck his head in the door at that point and, presumably in Annabelle’s defence, pointed out darkly that he had seen worse things in a bath.

The mind boggles.

Went to petrol station on the way to work and was delighted to discover that my bank, once again, have spent all my money.

Well, I thought: This is new.

My card has been declined in such a wide variety of places now that I often feel that I am an unwitting competitor in some Machiavellian challenge dreamed up by bored Santander workers who have now tired of delightedly shouting ‘Buzzzzzz wrong answer’ in the ‘Guess-what-stupid-fucking-security-question-we-can-ask-this-muppet’ game.

This version of bankers entertainment is called ‘Till-Roulette’ and involves dice, a timer, the big red ‘DECLINE’ button in addition, I imagine, to a great deal of giggling and a spellbound audience of office-juniors variously calling out helpful things like; “wait for it, wait for it,” “NOW, NOW, NOW” to their co-workers.

Anyway, malicious banking staff aside, back in my muddy puddle on the path of life, I was forced to hand back a pack of blue Softmints and a packet of Quavers while the militant witch with the intimidating, ‘happy-to-decline-you’ tone of voice, stood over me as I completed the ‘I-can’t-pay-for-my-petrol-form-of-shame’.

I have twenty-four hours to come up with fifteen pounds and one pence.

Don’t even get me started on the one pence.