Speechless

An unfortunate combination of the flu and a weekend of very little sleep and far too much socialising and, therefore, talking, has left me with no voice. At first I merely sounded as though I’d taken up smoking 50 a day. But by Monday there was nothing left. Tuesday wasn’t any better. Just as well I’m the new kid in town at work and don’t have to talk to anyone much. Have become quite proficient at sending emails instead of poking my head over the top of the cubicle-thingy and asking someone a question.

However, today I’m back to smoking 20 cigarettes by lunchtime, if my voice is anything to go by, so I’m clearly on the mend.

But the very good news of the day is that I have a bank account. I marched into the bank, with my lack of voice, and whispered loudly that I wanted, nay, demanded a bank account and here were my many bits of paper to prove that I really do exist. It was close, though. Some thoughtful tapping of the pen against their heads as they pondered if my NZ bank statement was eligible as ‘proof’ if there wasn’t a postcode on it. HA! As backup, I’d also brought along my contract. This changed everything.
Them: ‘Oh, you’re a professional. Here, have a credit card, too.’
Me: ‘I’m a what? Oooh, a credit card … what’s the limit on that shiny piece of plastic?’
It’s hard to concentrate when visions of shopping malls dance enthusiastically through my head making ta-ra-ra-boom-te-day noises, with drums and cymbals crashing as confetti falls from the sky.

I am, at this point, rather enamoured of the idea of credit card debt in two countries.

Last week saw the return of Ruthie and Mrs Spencer so we, plus Mike and Skye and Anna trotted off to The Sound of Music, the musical. It was fabulous and only mildly camp. This did mean that at times we were all giggling. The three little girls in front of us would turn around and look disapprovingly at us whenever this occurred. It transpired that they were chums with one of the small children who was singing and looking cutsey on stage. I tried to make friends with them by offering them chocolate. It seems they’d been paying attention to the ‘don’t take candy from strangers’ lesson because they just looked at me suspiciously. Admittedly, by this stage I probably had quite a few ice cream and chocolate stains on me, such is my gusto for sugar, so I probably looked dodgy. I discovered later one of the pitfalls of eating chocolate ice cream in the dark – stains all over my jersey which no one was kind enough to point out.

I have been accused of having an imaginary boyfriend. This is, in all fairness, from a friend of a friend who, in the past month, has heard me mention this ‘boyfriend’ but has yet to see any evidence of him, and I don’t help matters by admitting that I’m not too sure exactly when he’ll be turning up. I have ‘sad, almost 30-year-old delusional woman’ written all over me.