what a load of bankers (continued)

at the end of the last part of this story, enid had managed to get a replacement cash card, but had no pin number for it. she called hbsc, who said,"oh, it'll be the same as your last one."

"oh, fantastic!" (was this saga finally coming to an end?)

"unless..." (no. enid spotted that the background music to her life had switched to a minor key, and the bassoons had started playing.)

"unless what?"

"unless you changed it."

"i changed it," said enid.

"why don't you try it, and then call me back to order a new one if it doesn't work."

"huh?" said enid. "you're telling me that if i've changed the pin, then i need a new one. i'm telling you i've changed the pin, so, by your logic, i need a new one. let's avoid a pointless trip to the bankomat in the snow, and another phone call, and order the new pin now." you've got to wonder, thought enid, at how stupid these people can be.

at this point, to avoid needless repetition, enid will just refer the reader to her last posting on this subject. imagine another round of instructions to send the pin number by courier, those instructions being ignored, a letter being lost, the instructions to send by courier being repeated in stronger terms, and skip forward a month to a tuesday afternoon in january. enid is working in her living room. there's a knock on the door - it's the courier. enid thanks him, and takes two (two?) well wrapped letters back to her desk.

she opens them. both of them tell her her new pin code - which is exactly the same as her old one. was the stupid customer service representative in bangalore actually not so stupid after all? and if so, why could she tell enid if her original pin code was the same, but not tell her if she'd changed it. is hbsc owned by cold war russians?

well, enough's enough. enid's decided she'll be switching banks. she's going to move her money to sally's new financial institution, TPB. go and read about it- it's the funniest-and-at-the-same-time-most-scarily-accurate posting enid's seen for yonks.

the first ever quite literally moment

enid and the man spent the first four weeks of their honey-two-moons in vietnam. one day they were in a bus to the dmz, where they had the misfortune to be sharing air with an englishman of the most obnoxious kind. he was good-looking in a hugh grant way and, worse, he knew it. he lounged on the back seat, flipped his floppy fringe and bored the arses off his victims (most of the bus - he had a carrying voice).

"yeah, we were in pat pong for the moon festival, yeah stoned out of our minds the whole time. there was this noodle shack where we got the most fantastic pad thai for only 3 baht. great tofu. that's where i got this ying yang tattoo - mindblowing isn't it. yeah, and i feel so sorry for my friends stuck at uni at home - they're missing out on a real education, seeing the world, taking on board some new concepts..."

half way through a description of a bar in koh samui, he said, "and the girls were quite literally throwing themselves at me."

enid and the man looked at each other as the same mental picture formed in their minds. the man mimed bodily propulsion, and let out a small monty python squeak. enid giggled. then enid mimed more forceful bodily propulsion, and let out a louder monty python squeak. the man laughed. very soon natural escalation of bodily gestures had taken them to the point where they were barely able to breathe for laughter and the whole bus was staring at them.

since then, quite-literally moments have been one of their favourite running jokes. a joke, which unlike dutch ovens or the ring stories, enid is willing to share with the interweb.

their most recent qlm was this morning, as enid read this: "A minuet ago (quite literally), Redfin expanded its San Francisco “Sweet Digs” blog to include “eyewitness reviews” of Bay Area listings."

walking along oxford street

a girl just ahead is wearing pink shorts, black fishnets and long white boots. (it doesn't only happen in molvania.)

the man (booming like a fog horn in a force 9 gale): what the bloody hell does she think she looks like!

enid (in a hissy whisper): remember which country you're in!

the man (normal volume): oh, yeah...

dog resumé

enid and the man are worried that if they don't manage to buy a house this week, they will be homeless when they get to san francisco. it's not easy to rent a place when you're a pet owner, because your landlord can be sued if your dog bites someone - clearly a risk enid and the man take seriously. they discovered on the interweb that it's best to prepare a pet resumé (cv) to try to persuade your future landlord that your big black dog loves small children, and not just to eat.

enid's not so keen on fibbing. here's the resumé above adapted for stalin:

DOG RESUME: STALIN

Description: Stalin is a genocidal, large dog who will not hesitate to use his teeth on guests. He is a 5 year old 40 kg Black Russian terrier who is immature, excitable and highly-strung. We have had Stalin for five years, and he is a cherished member of our family, but we've still not managed to train him out of biting guests and menacing The Man's mother. If you have any questions about our dog, please ask her dog sitter, Tanya at this number - 44 777 6666. Ask for ward 3 - facial injuries reconstruction unit.

Health/Grooming: Stalin is neutered, which hasn't benefited his behaviour one jot. He regularly picks up fleas, which we tend to notice when he gets babiosis and starts throwing up on our landlord's carpets. We brush Stalin on the 32nd of each month and have him professionally groomed biannually if we can find someone brave enough. Stalin is kept up-to-date on all vaccinations by top quality Molvanian vets.

Activities:We walk Stalin three times a day, and go to one of Kiev’s many off-leash areas for more vigorous exercise at least twice a week. Stalin's behaviour on and off-leash is poor. On-leash, he tugs like a traction engine to get within tooth-range of small dogs. Off-leash he menaces small children with food, chases smaller dogs, larger dogs, horses and sometimes cars. He loves the beach, and friends often beg us to leave him at home. These activities satisfy Stalin's exercise requirements, and he is calm and content relaxing indoors while we are away at work. (Sadly, this is not true of our other dog, Fluffy, who is great with people, but thinks wearing her paws to the bone scratching a hole in the door is preferable to being shut in alone.)

About us:As dog owners, we always try to act responsibly. We have taken three classes on dog behaviour, had a vet psychologist to visit us, and hired an ex-Ukrainian army dog teacher to beat Stalin into submission, err, we mean train him. We always clean up after our dog, and we arrange for reliable pet care if we are going away. We are so sure that Stalin will be a "good tenant," we are willing to put up an additional security deposit of $1,000,000. We are committed to responsible, caring pet ownership - if only our pets were committed to responsible people ownership in return.

References: Our current landlord has just died. Other letters of recommendation were lost in transit when we moved to Ukraine. Sorry.

We would be happy to have a potential landlord meet Stalin, so long as he stood behind glass and took out personal medical insurance.

leaving on a jet plane

today enid is flying to the uk for work and then on to san francisco to go shopping for all the little things you can't buy in molvania. her shopping list looks like this:

- pg tips tea bags (100)

- senseo coffee pods (50)

- those liquid blue gel aspirins (2 packets)

- body shop shampoo

- house (3 bedrooms, or 2 plus study)

wish her luck! she's not sure if they have the interweb in america, but if they do she'll try to post from there.

what a load of bankers

enid has blogged before about her bank, the heavily disguised hbsc. well, there is another hbsc story - a dark story of human passions, frustration and regret. now time has passed and the wounds have begun to heal, enid feels able to revisit the past and tell the saga of the lost cash card. draw your seats closer to the fire, light your pipes and we'll begin.

our story begins on a street in kernib, molvania. it's friday evening, and enid stops at a bankomat to draw out some cash for the weekend. the machine puts up a big red shouty message on the screen, telling enid in russian, molvanian and english that there's no money in her account - but enid's just been paid and there is money in her account. enid thumps the machine's keyboard, swears at it (restricting herself to english), and heads for home. it's only when she's unlocking her front door that she remembers she didn't retrieve her card. she runs back as fast as she can, puffing like a asthmatic walrus. of course the card is gone. buggery bollocks. some molvanian is right now spending enid's hard-earned on tart's trinkets in the glittery shops of mandarin plaza.

back home, enid calls hbsc. luck, for the last time in several months, is on her side - no money is missing from the account. the bank cancels the card and enid orders a replacement. "how long will it take to get here? i've a trip to the uk in two weeks."

"if we send it by courier, it will be there in four days or so - but it will cost you an extra £10."

"never mind," enid says. "i wouldn't want you to post it anyway. only 50% of molvanian post actually arrives."

"righty-ho, i've noted that down, ms singular," replies hbsc, in a bangalore accent. "nice weather we've been having here in blighty, isn't it? quite splendid for the cricket?"

"save your cultural pretences for others, and speed that card on its way."

four days later, five, then six and still no courier from hbsc. enid calls. "that card you couriered to me?"

"oh, no, we posted it. it would have cost £10 extra to courier it."

"but i expressly told you not to post it," enid says. when angry she tends to use words like "expressly", which are not part of her everyday lexicon. (nor is "lexicon" part of her lexicon, come to that.)

"sorry, ms singular, but the card should be with you in two weeks now. bit chilly here in blighty, isn't it? still, the sun's out, which is jolly spiffing."

enid, who is prepared this time, points out that its 36 degrees in southern india, and night time to boot.

enid and her barclaycard squeak through the trip to the uk without major financial hardship. back in molvania, the two weeks come and go and enid phones hbsc again. "so, as i predicted, the letter with my card in has gone missing. i'll be in the uk again in a couple of weeks - can you deliver another card to a branch near my parents' house, so i can pick it up in person?"

"certainly ms singular, which branch?"

"whitstable."

"i've made an instruction for that on your records. been a bit wet here in blighty lately, hasn't it? i hope the cricket's not rained off"

"i live in molvania, the place you posted the missing letter to," enid retorts. "the weather in blighty is merely of passing interest, and the cricket less so. please ensure that card arrives as promised."

three days before she flies, enid phones the bank again to check that the card has been dispatched. she is assured that it has. "there's a note here on the file that says to send it to whitstable branch."

"but was it actually sent?"

"it says to send it on the file, so it will have been sent."

"last time it said to courier it to kernib, but was it couriered?"

"let me ch-"

"that was a rhetorical question."

enid's mother and father drive her to whitstable. well, her father drives and her mother points out what he's doing wrong. they manage to park right outside the bank and enid runs inside. "oh no," says the helpful teller (who should be made head of offshore banking at once). "i'm pretty sure that we've not had any letters for collection. but wait there while i turn the bank upside down for you."

she does so. no letter containing much needed cash card.

back at her parents' place, enid calls. "that card you sent for collection to your whitstable branch..."

"we didn't send a card to whitstable-"

"i know."

"-we sent it to kernib. that's the address on the account. why would we send it to whitstable?"

""

"ms singular?"

"is. there. perhaps. a note. in the system. to say. to send it to whitstable? did i not call you merely three days ago to confirm you'd sent it? i've just driven to whitstable expressly to pick this bloody card up, and to be quite frank i'm so angry that i'm using words that are not in my usual lexicon at all."

"oh, yes, now i scroll down a bit there is a note to that effect. sorry. still, the card will be in kernib when you get back, won't it?"

"if you couriered it, it might. did you courier it?"

"no."

a week after enid's return to molvania, by some miraculous turn of fate, her card arrives in the post. the accompanying letter mentions her new pin code, which will arrive in a separate letter. there is, of course, no separate letter.

(to be continued, probably for the rest of enid's life.)

fun monday

this week's fun monday is hosted at anecdotes, antidotes and anodes, and the idea is to link to memorable posts and introduce each other to new bloggers or little-read blog posts from old friends.

if ever there were two words not meant for each other, they were "fun" and "monday", so enid decided that in her posting she'd try to cheer you up a bit. she's posted links to bloggers she thinks you may not have read, bloggers who deserve a wider audience.

enid's just discovered twenty major, who blogs from dublin and is very funny indeed. here he is on those out of office message things.

carpetblogger used to blog from ukraine, which is almost exactly the same country as molvania, so enid only wishes they'd managed to meet up and be opinionated about the country together. here is carpetblogger in fine form, dissing aerosvit. (enid doesn't usually make new year's resolutions, but she's just made one about not using this airline.)

enid's real-world, meat-based, friend juvation blogs very amusingly about destroying objects, including this base station. if only he'd blog more often - perhaps if you persuade him, he will.

yaxlich is probably better known to most people the others above, but enid couldn't miss out on one of his funniest posts, this one in which he stays up late and blogs under the influence. (of what is not specified. enid often blogs under the influence of caffeine, but no-one has suspected a thing.)

it's only five long days until the weekend. have a fun monday!

inny or outy?

enid and the man have two very different views of what tidy is. the man is messy in public - in fact when he first moved in with enid he grew a pile of discarded clothes in the bedroom that was higher than the bed by the time enid decided that, new relationship or not, she was going to order him to use the washing machine. oddly, the man is very tidy where no one can see it. he likes to pack his socks and underpants in sub-cases within his suitcase, which enid thinks is very weird.

enid likes the surface of things to be very tidy, minimalist even, but she can cope with cupboards whose doors have to be pushed shut on a pile of jetsam with an escape wish.

what sort of tidy are you, inny or outy?

phriday photo

an 18th century suicide note began and ended, “all this buttoning and unbuttoning.” the author must have lived in molvania in winter. to pop out for milk, enid has to take off her top and jeans, then pull on long johns and thermal vest, warm roll-neck jumper and thick trousers, overcoat, hat, scarf and gloves. ten minutes later, when she gets back, the process is reversed. heaven forbid she forget to buy the coffee.

the phriday photo below is a wild dog living in the park near enid's flat.

the barber of seville

lawrence of australia is an old friend of enid’s, so named because he travelled overland from australia to berlin and most photos of the period show him with a towel on his head, sitting on camel/horseback in crapistan (thanks to carpetblogger for that one). all the stans not being enough for him, lawrence went on to run the office in kernib for a year, and enid thinks the whole eastern europe thing has driven him slightly mental. (and if he’s not loonytunes already, his partner’s just had a new baby, so he soon will be.) when he was in kernib, lawrence collected metro stations (at the last count he’d visited 36 of the 48* in the metropolis.

more to the point of this story, lawrence also collected operas. he tried to see as many different ones as he could to take advantage of a country where the average seat in the stalls costs less than one day travel card on the london underground.

this week, lawrence is visiting kernib. aha, the barber of seville is on, and a visit shall be arranged.

the man and enid arrived early. the trappings of the opera are great fun - huge cloakrooms with great brass tokens, chandeliers, boxes with babushkas to guard them, little bars everywhere serving a wide range of alcohol and little open sandwiches with smoked salmon or salami... which is convenient, as surviving the singing is only possible with lashings of crimean champagne inside you. at a quid a glass, you can afford to get totally arse-holed, and enid did her level best to achieve that state before act one.

the boys were well prepared: lawrence had bought the programme notes, and already had 78 operas** notched on his bedpost. the man had visited wikipedia that afternoon and done some swotting. enid added nothing to this cultural mix, but was no worse that the others at getting through the whole first act without spotting that the opera was in molvanian not italian. (or french, as the man claimed it would be. but we are talking about the cultural giant who asked what the "m" stood for in “per diem”.)

so, for those of you who would enjoy a plot synopsis from an inebriated individual who can’t speak molvanian, it goes something like this:

some people (dressed mostly in black) mill around a lot singing at each other. this goes on a long time. apparently one of them is the male love interest, a count disguised as a poor student - he wants the female love interest, rosina, to want him for himself, not his money. (he’s a very silly boy - what does he think men have to offer women except their financial worth? “tell you what, marry me and you can wash my underpants, clear up after me and get locked in by me.” “err, no thanks.” “i’m stupidly wealthy.” “oh, go on then.”) a fat woman appears on a balcony. you think this must be rosina, who is living with her guardian who has designs on her own money. (if she has her own money, why’s the count so bothered about the true love thing? she doesn’t need to marry at all, and frankly, enid would advise this course of action.) “rosina” sings a bit, then the first act is over. you rush to the bar for more champagne.

the plot’s getting hazier now. you weren’t sleeping then, just resting your eyes. the fat woman is back, writing a letter, and you think how rude you were being about her, because she’s not that fat at all really. a little later the man tells you that this is a different woman, who is actually rosina. you’re never entirely sure who the fat lady was, but she does appear on stage at the same time as rosina, so there’s something in what the man says.

the count comes in, disguised as a drunk soldier. he appears to have a bit of a penchant for disguises - if you were rosina, you’d keep your underwear drawer locked after you’re married. when everyone else is distracted, he passes a letter to rosina, but then draws attention to himself by singing about it. he is arrested, but then unarrested again. the end of act 2, so you rush to the bar for more champagne.

the count is disguised as a singing tutor this time! there is no end to his resources. more letter-passing goes on, during which some soldiers march up and down a bit. or was that act 2? there’s quite a lot more singing, but it ends as you expected it would, with a car chase and gun battle, uh, you mean with rosina and the count getting married. there’s dramatic foreshadowing of this, because all through act 3, rosina is wearing a wedding dress. “what, this old thing? well, i just thought someone might possibly pop the question, and i didn’t want to be unprepared. a count, you say? oh, all right then.”

the most dramatic event of the evening comes as the cast are bowing to massive applause. the curtain, a big old beast that’s probably the original for the iron one in churchill’s famous speech, come down and clocks one of the performers.


*these numbers are made up.
**another lie.