No Bones

I make no issue of it, nor anything else; I'm having a bad day today.

I very nearly got myself killed this morning, which in any case generally tends to put a sense of my own mortality into a day... which, when combined with the kind of day that doesn't come along very often - i.e. bungee jumping, meeting your idol or otherwise doing something to make the day worthwhile, is fair enough.
Otherwise this tint of mortality just rams home the lack of 'carpe diem' in the daily round.
Which is none too cheery.

In another aspect of my life, I am missing my love greatly today.
No matter how I word this, it comes across as an understatement.
Again, it might be because of the boy racer's near hit this morning...it might not.
There is a lot to miss about my love.

In yet another aspect of life, that of fiscal matters, I recently picked up the reins of a long dormant bank account; I have paid a little money into it over the last couple of weeks, money from things other than work - a few quid for some scouting work for a news agency, nothing major. But this is the beginning of using this account for flights, saving and spending for America. This is to be, you might say, The Hope Account.

Well, that was the plan.
I went into the Hatfield branch of this bank (who shall remain nameless until I finish typing Lloyds TSB) and asked, not unreasonably, in my opinion, if I could order a card of some description to use in conjunction with the account. In my mind's eye I could see me ordering flights online...they said no.
I was understandably taken aback.
Apparently, in order to be able to get to the money in any way other than physically going into the bank, proving my identity, writing a request and then standing, waiting while everyone smiles and pretends that this shit is still necessary in this day and age before being formally handed the stuff, it will take approximately six months of 'activity' and 'transactions' on the account.

Which, when they won't give you the money 'til you pry it from their chubby little fingers personally, is bank-speak for, "We want to make sure you're rich enough first."

It pisses me off that they feel the need to have this level of control, when a simple debit card, suitably set up, cannot be used over the amount actually available to spend. It's like they're doing it for the kicks. To keep people down.

I am loathe to set up internet banking because the only net access I have is intermittently through my housemate's PC...

So; I will wait for my meagre little cheques to clear, and then I shall pry that money from their chubby little fingers. And bury it in a box, ten feet under the ground, at the bottom of my garden.

For ease of access, you understand.