Treating Myself

I feel sure someone has put a hex on me.
No sooner had I returned from a future wallet bruising encounter with our lawyer yesterday, than the telephone rang and the funeral director’s accountant told me my cheque which I gave them the week before Christmas had been ‘declined’ by the bank. The word ‘bounce’ was not mentioned but hung in the air. I phoned the bank to get an explanation, but they were at a loss to know why. Perhaps the cheque book was too old or the machine reading the cheque was averse to green ink. Who knows, but a new cheque has been delivered.

I met up for a restorative coffee with the reawakened blipper JoppaStrand and lapsed Tiggy this morning. We were in combative mood having found it impossible to access the RSA Café through the gardens because the Christmas Market hogs them and it doesn’t open until 10am. We felt that as Council Tax citizens of Edinburgh we should not be prevented from accessing the entrance from the steps off Princes Street at 2 minutes to 10am. Not content with that rebuff, we were told we couldn’t have a window seat in the Contini restaurant therein unless we were having breakfast. A job’s worth encounter if ever there was one. Relegated to the common café, we nevertheless enjoyed our hour of scone eating and chatting.

With one estimate in hand and two in the pipeline for fitting a new boiler, things are at last beginning to look up on the heating front, but I will have at least another week of chill to endure.
Being cold, it’s hard to ignore treats like my Ritter marzipan Sport bar which slid over my tonsils so easily and quickly but will lie on my thighs for far longer.