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.
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.