I'm not even going to pretend that there is anything worthy or thought out in this blog: this is a straightforward rant.
While the rest of London is being blown to pieces in a gale that Oxford Street seems to have forgotten to RSVP to, I am being telephoned an hour early by interviewees. As this interview is to do with my freelancing rather than my actual job and as this interviewee has got the time entirely wrong, I ask him very politely to call back in an hour. "Is that OK?" "Oh sure, absolutely" says ludicrous American, sounding stoned in the only way that ludicrous Americans can.
Forty minutes after this mythical phone call is supposed to take place I email his manager, again very politely, saying there's obviously been a mix-up and here are some new dates I could do and how much I'm looking forward to speaking to his client (lies).
Checking in when I get home I get this email:
didn't you tell me that 1:oo was **'s call in time to you?
I don't understand this, but feel rather like am being shouted at by a schizophrenic typewriter. Either way, 1.00 is still half an hour away from when the man actually called, and another half an hour still from the time actually agreed upon.
I reply. Second email is already in inbox.
"tomorrow 2:OO HIS TIME, ok???"
This means 7pm my time which means no shower, no getting changed for Friday fun, and a potential no show for a second time. Like, whoopee.
The second truly horrendous thing that happened to me was my credit card statement. While this clearly is nothing new to anyone unfortunate enough to possess one of these evil things (although they are very useful for paying bills when haven't actually got any money to pay bills with) I saw that either I've been cashing credit card cheques in my sleep, or some utter fucker has ripped me off to the tune of £720.
"The 15th? That was when we went to Stringfellows," says James-from-work helpfully. Thinking back frantically, not only am I very clear on the fact of not using credit card cheques for anything at Stringfellows (16 of us went along courtesy of FHM.com, I spent evening getting the gossip from the strippers ) but that I didn't go near a bank that day anyway. This was why I got ripped off when buying lapdance tokens with my Switch.
The cheque was paid in five days previously anyway, and certainly not by me. Ridiculously, the statement doesn't tell you who got the cash - bank statements have one good thing to say about themselves at least - just the cheque number. The nice Irish man on the end of the line when I finally get through after calling two wrong numbers and failing entirely to be allowed an internet banking account, doesn't know either. This is stupid. CCTV footage will have to be used. Detectives. Security.
When I got my account blocked I was asked for my age "in years" (anything else? Anyone?) and, bewilderingly, my star sign. I feel like I'm being chatted up by my own credit card: "Squat, pink, bit of a card, very easy, will screw its partner by fucking with anything that comes along. Correct signature not strictly necessary".
For fuck's sake. So, tomorrow morning I've got to talk to their fraud department who will clearly be doing everything they can to prove that I'm a lying liar from liar's town who's accidentally spent £720 in one go and is a bit sheepish about it. If anyone has any idea how to sort this out, any way at all, that would be great. I've only ever lost bank cards before, not vast sums of cash. Also, ludicrous Americans.