ON ENTERING my bank last week (in daylight, not with a mask and cosh) I stood in a queue as long as a kidney transplant list and watched the trainees do their stuff.
Why do they have staff training on a Monday? That's when most people bank their weekend business takings; it's also when pensioners need to organise their biscuit tin savings. The wee women were taking turns sitting and queue-hopping. There were no
wee old husbands to help out as they always die first and leave the women to do the queuing by themselves because old men are selfish that way.
I hate queues more than childbirth. I would rather get a baby pulled out of my body than stand and wait for people to serve me. I get twitchy, annoying and properly inappropriate. I voice stuff that I believe other people are thinking and I am the only one brave enough to say it out loud.
"Why are they chatting?" I asked. "Is that assistant using a chunky crayon to do her accounts? What age is she? Twelve? I am bored. Does anyone else hate these people?"
Everyone looked away. Apparently it was just me who hated the bank people. I was speaking for no-one but myself and was quickly creating enemies. I could hear tutting from the old women who tightened their floral headscarves whilst scowling.
These were women who were used to waiting for things to happen. The Second World War taught them patience and tolerance. I can't even wait for a microwave to 'ding'. I eat food semi-cold before I let the timer complete its run.
I got to my teller. She was all smiles and said: "Good morning, how are you today?" Clearly she hadn't heard me causing a scene in the queue or she was choosing to ignore me the way nursery teachers tolerate cranky toddlers.
After I committed my hard-earned cheques to their vault and therefore into an uncertain future, she smiled and asked, "Would you like to talk to Craig? He could give you a better offer on your account." She pointed to a boy in an ill-fitting suit.
"Who is Craig? Did he just buy the bank for forty bob?" I snapped at her, then added, "I would just be happy if the bank didn't shut down. I am seriously considering taking all my cash out and stuffing it down my tights and sewing some into my good winter coat, so tell Craig I don't need his advice."
Craig was poised with a plastic pen; I glared at him and knew it was time to go.
A biscuit tin under the bed is starting to seem a good idea.
A London gig to save the planetI'M OFF to London tomorrow to perform comedy for The Rainforest Foundation UK at the Leicester Square Theatre to promote their Hot and Bothered campaign to raise awareness of climate change.
I have never been labelled an eco-friendly person in the past, though I do recycle. We have been recycling for years, poor people always did. Poverty makes you that way; no-one in my family threw out an object or possession unless it had been used by at least three generations first and was totally defunct and broken. My daughter Ashley's cot had been through six kids before she got a sleep in it.
My wee great-niece Abi will be getting a suitcase full of clothes from my mate in London as her daughter has outgrown them. We may not be saving trees or penguins, but we are saving cash and that's a good thing!
The funniest case of brain-freeze I've ever heard aboutIT IS A weird thing to say out loud, but I laughed heartily when I recently read a book about a man's incredibly dangerous brain infection that rendered him totally paralysed.
You may think me heartless, but it is one of the funniest books I've ever read. It is called I Think There's Something Wrong With Me. It is described as a comedy trauma and is written by Nigel Smith. This amazing real-life account of his hospital stay and slow progress after his brain shut down was totally hysterical.
I read the whole book in one sitting and the man is now one of my favourite writers.
The full article contains 739 words and appears in The Scotsman newspaper.
