Today I got a new keyboard, shaped differently from my old one. Not in any major way, just enough to make it feel different. It’s a little bit disconcerting, because all the keys seem to be in the wrong place. I find things like this to be terribly exciting and view them as a welcome change to my daily routine.

Another exciting thing happened today when I was watching daytime television. Now, normally, I am not one to be found lazing infront of the TV on a Tuesday afternoon, stuffing my face with cheese, cakes and/or mercury, but this day was different. I have no idea how it was different, it just was.

Anyway, during the advert break for some hilariously bad talk show/detective drama/news bulletin, I found myself staring with eager eyes at the garishly animated dancing corporate logo of some Loans Company PLC. Incorporated & Sons. This horrible dancing logo - I think it was a talking phone with wheels, or an exploding foetus or something - was extolling unto me the virtues of taking out up to £25,000 to buy myself something really, really nice that I probably didn’t want, will never need and am no doubt allergic to (I am allergic to many things including things shaped like peanuts, mercury, the music of Jethro Tull and the sky).

Being the suggestible type that I am, certain parts of my brain immediately snapped into action. “You really want that loan, really really really really”.
“Yes I do”, I aggreed.

I called the number that the talking wheeled baby-monster told me to call and was greeted almost immediately by a cheerful young woman who introduced herself as Foona. I have never known anyone called Foona and I don’t think it’s even a real name. This didn’t seem important at the time.
“Hello, Foona”, I said, “I would like a loan, post haste, pronto pronto”. I never take any nonsense from call center types and find that this is a good way of achieving an instant rapport with them.
“Ten of your thousand pounds should do nicely”. She then took my details, including my name, address, credit card number, date of birth, underwear colour, marmoset breeding license number and fax number.
“Ha! I do not own a fax machine, never have and never will. Your attempts have been thwarted”. Quite what I had thwarted I have no idea. I hung up the phone none the richer but wiser, thanks to my exciting adventure on the phone and proceeded back through to the living room where I placed myself, one again, infront of the TV and awaited further instruction from animated talking dustbin logos or whatever.