It is easy to see patterns where patterns do not exist, if one is in that frame of mind. Having failed to prove my identity this morning, I thought I would go and spend the nicely hoarded £40 I had on my Nectar card, buying goodies to take to Paris. I checked my balance last night online.
The girl on Sainsbury's checkout said in a pale but decisive voice "Your card is invalid". No amount of explaining that there was £40 on it penetrated this. "Your card is invalid. Talk to Nectar."
At the moment I am permanently on the edge of a wobble. And I have to remind myself it isn't the fault of the person reading from a screen in front of me that this is beginning to feel like the opening chapters of The Handmaid's Tale.
I'm wondering if a memo has gone out and I have actually been cancelled.
There was almost a very unladylike tantrum, and then some hand-waving and sulking. "Throw it away, go on, throw it away! I'm leaving the country and don't have time..." Ah, where's my BAFTA.
Identity; proof of being you - it's a strange thing. I have in the past week or two stripped myself of everything that signifies security to me, and defines where and who I am. So what is left is irrationally precious, I suppose.
Today has officially been a pile of cunt.
And you can't really find a worksafe picture of that.