I spent most of today at the other side of the settee. It was like being on holiday. It disturbed Chaplin who has grown used to me being in one space for long periods of time after I have made the exhausting journey from bed to settee each morning. I think he might be judging me. When he returns from walking his patch he looks at me as if to question how I can stay in one place for hours on end.
I made a decision not to send furious letters today. It wasn’t easy. Time needs passing somehow. I was going to listen to Amy Winehouse but didn’t want to appear a grief thief so I researched the legal rights of debt collection agencies. The conclusion is that they are professional mitherers. They can phone me, send me letters, knock on my door but can’t take my telly so I have little to fear. Mind you, it’s a telly with a fat back, not one as thin as a credit card, so they could never sell it anyway.
I’m now planning ways to infuriate them when they call. I might sing. I might see if I can remember any O Level German. If they come to the door I might stare blankly at them and shrug, letting them take in the gravy stains down my top and the resentment in my eyes. I’ll leave the telly up loud so they know what they can’t take.
Anyway, I logged on at midnight to check if my giro had gone into my bank account. It hadn’t. It’s a fib that the button is flicked at midnight. I’m going to bed.
Money I have: Nine bloody pence
What I intend to buy tomorrow: A bottle of rioja and a cream cake