Validity

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.