We all have bugbears – things that make us want to just get back into bed and have them ‘taken care of’ by someone else. Things that just send us over the edge into full blown foot stamping tantrums. Things that we have to do, necessary evils, that if we didn’t do them then we just wouldn’t be fully functional members of society.
Mine is dealing with any kind of institution that supposedly deals with my money.
A bank – at the top of my list. Really, I have tried my utmost to stay out of the place where it’s all glass and mirrors and loud ticking clocks with only the sound of paper money rubbing against paper money – in THEIR hands, not yours – I mean whoever heard of going to a bank to get money? No sirree it’s a place where they Take your money and then ask you to pay them for Taking it.
When someone first explained to me what a bank was I developed an image of the obligatory vaults where one of the little drawers had your name on it and every time you put money in the bank then some little grey minion would check that it was there once a month and put a 10 cent piece with it because it was still safe and they would keep looking after it. Turns out, like the Mafia, they were actually having it, ‘taken care of’. As in, sinking it to the bottom of a murky river with cement shoes on and then asking you to fit the bill and claiming that they’d never heard of Your money.
The second is my Insurance Broker – bloody hell, these people make me want to catch live snakes and wrangle rabid . For years, we pay them every month, not small amounts of dosh either no no – packets of money for the proverbial ‘rainy day’. And then one clear day, a granny reverses into your unoccupied parked car and the freaking Insurance Bastards want you to pay them before they undent your fender – I’m going to kill! The reason I have Insurance is for just these little accidents – I’m a ‘soccer mom’ not a crazy rally driver! I’ve already PAYED you gazillions over the last 20 years that I’ve been driving – the excess is almost three quarters of what it’s going to cost to fix the little ding. It’s bad enough that I’ve jumped through your burning hoops of fire that you call a Claim Form. I’ve spoken to your mentally challenged person ON THE PHONE – which I hate! You’ve sent me e-mails first addressing me like I’m your buddy and now 7 back and forth pings later I’m Ms So’n’so – Give Me A Break! Who are we trying to kid here – you’re not really doing your job are you? No you’re trying to make me do it and then pay you too? And this is where I get two years old and lie on the floor and kick and scream incoherently about what I Do Not Want To Do!
I Will NOT Pay you any more money!!!
I will NOT speak to you on the phone again. You have my blood, stool and DNA samples you can fill out the rest of the moronic forms and then file your nails in your own time!
I just want my car fixed so that I don’t look like some white trash hooker driving my kids up and down between johns and wine spritzers!!!!