The fifth was shaping up well to be normalish, but of course, I should have known that wouldn’t last. Much of the day was spent worrying about money. My mother had generously volunteered to cover the bills for Russell at the vet, but at an estimated £800, without possible blood transfusions, following Christmas and then the care agency bill for double time over the holiday on top, I knew we were going to be sailing close to the wind. I checked the balance and winced. We were not going to make it. In the afternoon after Russell’s expensive jaunt out I bit the bullet and rang the mortgage people, who were all busy and would ring me back when they were not, after I’d explained to three people that I wanted two thousand pounds and what for.
So, as it was then evening, I started clearing away the Christmas decorations. Picking up the long lit twigs on the hearth I heard a distinct plock and searched for the exploded bulb. I didn’t find one, what I found were the pieces of the last bowl I had bought at a miniatures fair which was Muriel’s rare piece de resistance and she has probably hung up her potter’s wheel for good now. Sad, sad, sad. It’s not much of an heirloom, I’ve only had it since November.
Decorations tidied and bagged, I sat to compute and thought to cheer myself up with an online stroll through cashmere cardigans. I do have a little cashmere waistcoat. Cashmere deserves its reputation. It is warmer, lighter, softer and superior to every other wool, I believe, also it doesn’t shrink. I do have dolls dressed in well-washed merino wool, which looks nicer on them than it did on me.
So I flicked through the ludicrous prices for some time. Cleo, the little cat, came to see what I was up to. I told her I wished I had more money. She strolled off and I carried on wishing. Suddenly there was the most horrific crash, the sound of a cat falling through the stairs and a triumphant strangled mew. I dashed into the hall. There she was on the carpet carrying a bank bag full of pennies.
At least the cat is on my side.
The following morning the mortgage people rang me when it suited them, which was, of course, when I was in the shower. We spent the morning playing the game where I ring them and they will ring me back and they don’t, so I ring and speak to someone else and so on. It was lunch time when I rang my mother who was fine and chatty. I didn’t have time to do the third mortgage ring before the bank rang to say there was a problem. I thought it was either A) clever of them to know I was going to be overdrawn before I had even done it or B) a scam, especially as the person calling asked me in a foreign accent to confirm my postcode. So I said I would ring them back after lunch. Meanwhile the right person at the mortgage place rang to say she couldn’t authorise extra money because it wasn’t directly for the care of my mother so she would have to consult the legal group, jolly good and might ring me back. And I said OK but not at cat taking time. So probably tomorrow when I’m in the shower, might be good for them. After high speed soup and low speed going through lots of bits of paper to find the one with all the codes to ring the bank confidentially, I rang the bank confidentially. They wanted to know if I had used my credit card in Korea this morning.
Well after a lot of this and that, I have been hacked and it will take a week to issue a new card which makes paying for the vet with it a bit academic really, so we paid for today’s fight to get Russell into the basket, out on to the table, examined, injected and back into the basket fighting every inch of the way – Does he seem stronger to you at all – OW! yes, yes he does – with the last of my cash, after which the OT went food shopping with coupons.
I rang my mother to ensure she hadn’t let her card go a wandering. She had not but the hot topic was that the neighbour over the way had just reversed into the carer’s car. The lovely neighbour has more trouble than I do, which is saying something. A dead mother in Glasgow last year, a demented mother-in-law in Glasgow currently and a brother very ill in London. I must send her a card, or a prayer or some hope of some sort.
And so to tea. Not that I can eat much. All the worry has got my Barrett’s oesophagus up to the boil quite nicely. I don’t eat as much as I try to get food down in little bits and cough and cough and cough. This is going to be one January where I don’t have to think about a diet. The OT, on the January wagon, I suspect to see if he can do it, is eating for Britain.
Now here’s a thing. The OT, returned from the pub quiz just appeared with a present that Cleo had brought him. He always laments the disappearance of the Christmas decorations. This item belongs to the S&H, goodness knows where she found it.
So, will I have to pay the care agency with my own pension from the building society? So far it would cover about a week. If that’s the case I will have to be a bag lady in old age, fed by Russell with poisoned mice or wandering round the town with a shopping trolley, trailed by Cleo with a bag of pennies.
Oh it’s a worry. And it’s only the sixth. Of January 2015. A year that all the astrologers promised was going to be a lot easier for everyone. I cannot help feeling they may have lied.
Update – here we are at the seventh and the mortgage people rang to say they cannot do it; because my mother has no mental capacity, she can’t decide to give money to her grandson. So the year goes on. I wonder what the astrologers are predicting for 2016?
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JaneLaverick.skint as a fish dear.com