annafdd

The electrician sent me the bill for the parts today. The parts *only*. And there's the labour, and then the cost of the paint, and the labour for the painter, and the dormer window will have to be changed, and my head hurts even to think of what isolating the eaves might cost. Oh yes, and there is the money for the guys who will have to unload the boxes sent from Italy, and the hire for the skip, and the movers.

And this is the moment I chose to fall ill and stay home for two weeks.

My parents were reassuring, and say that they will loan me the money. But I am not sure I am going to have the money to go to Wiscon, because I don't feel like I can ask them for money for the house and then blow my own savings on plane tickets, and I so desperately wanted to go to Wiscon.

Ok, so last night after my last call at about six, I begged the FedEx people to keep my envelope at the depot for me to come and pick up. This was after the surprising news that they had passed again and found that the address was incorrect. INCORRECT? WHAT DO YOU MEAN, INCORRECT? There's only one street of that name in London. There's only one block of flat with that name on the street. And they have my postcode, for cryin' out loud!

Also, despite the fact that FedEx has this spiffy tracking site which supposedly can tell you were your shipment is in real time, presumably so that nervous executives can know that that all important letter has indeed reached New York from Johannesburg before 8 am, for the whole of yesterday it kept telling me that the delivery was expected at 2 pm - so that I had to stay inside and fume and fret - and only today innocently informed me that the failed delivery had occurred at 11.30 am.

The irony of it all is that there is a nice little red bus that goes from practically opposite my friend's door to the depot (in full majestic view of the Battersea Power Station, which is some spectacle). Total time to get there, probably half an hour including waiting for the bus and walking to the depot.

So this morning I wake up, ready to spring for the depot as soon as they open up at nine, when I get a phone call from Visa.

A nice Dutch operator tells me that FedEx has tried to deliver my envelope four times already and what should they do with it?

After a suitably long howl, I explained the situation to her and asked her if she could lean on FedEx to be sure they'd keel the parcel in.

And this is how, only ten days after the theft of my wallet, I got my emergency replacement credit card.

So I went and bought me another corporate outfit, which I may need, and then I went around aimlessly window-shopping and now I'm here in fjm's house, trying to keep one severely affection-deprived (according to him - I happen to know he's been petted non-stop until this morning) kitty from dying of loneliness, and to keep the other kitty from feeling left out and neglected, which is hard because she makes a kind of "who do you think you are" mock swipe at my hand when I try to pet her. (That's normal cat behaviour: MAAAAAOOWWWWW = help help I'm dying of lack of attention as the key turns in the lock, on the other hand, isn't.)

Lupin is a lot like my cat when I first got her. Down to the "love me love me or I'll die" insecurity complex. He looks like her, too, and has the same voice. Only he looks more aristocratic.

Since FedEx had told me to call them back if my card wasn't here by 1 pm, I did so. The woman told me that the "promised delivery time" was 5 fucking pm. I screamed a little and she said that all she could do was apologise.

She did however give me the name of the courier that is actually handling the delivery. I'm not naming them here because you never know, but I mention that their website says:

"My laptop has broken. I desperately need a replacement before I leave the office. Can you do that"

"Yes"

"Will you pick up within 20 to 30 minutes and are all your drivers security cleared?"

"Yes."

"I need to deliver a parcel to Birmingham tomorrow. It had to arrive before noon. Can you do that?"

"Yes"

Do I need to add more?
Lesson for the future: next time, deliver to some address that's easy to find, even for a courier. Post office, bank, FedEx front office.

No, the plastic hasn't arrived yet.

They tried delivering it Monday. Presumably when nobody was home, but then, they had the wrong address.

They tried to deliver it on Tuesday too. Three times. At the wrong address, but I went and checked the door corresponding to the address I gave them and no label could be found.

Today, they tried again: once at 11.20, when I had TOLD him I was out. Then they tried again, at 14.00. I was in, but we didn't connect, and no label. They are going to try again tomorrow... whether they will be able to find me is another story entirely.

This is getting, like, ridiculous.

Summing up:

Interview went all things considered pretty well.

My wallet got stolen somewhere along Oxford Street.

Some hopeful and very accomplished pickpocket (I am very protective of my purse) has just had the lousiest hit of the day - if I had five pounds cash in there I'd be surprised. On the other hand, I'm out of cash and all my cards.

Visa promised that I'll have an emergency replacement probably as soon as Friday.

Mastercard hinted at cash advance but then switched me to the Italian lock number and a very rude operator named Valentina who seemed quite surprise and affronted at me wanting money from them.

Zara not only has very pretty stuff but they are wonderfully nice and helpful to the panicky tourist that's just found herself moneyless.

Today's lizard was almost fully adult, and with a full tail. I took it and transferred it outside, but it seemed stunned. It was still alive - I could see her breathing - but she was completely still. Well, I wish it luck, poor creature.

I have had some interesting moments trying to get some money out of one of my ATM cards to cover an overdraft on my account. I took two trips to the bank and some desperate rooting in my Stuff to find out that my PIN had not been working because I had somehow become convinced that PINs were six numbers instead of five and inserted an extra nought there in the middle.

I slept most of the day and tonight promises to be a long night. I slept a lot - I went to bed at four am this morning but I still slept on and off until 6 pm.

My mom has suggested (threatened?) to come visit me instead of me going to visit them.

This would present some advantages, ie I won't have to drive to Udine, which at the moment would be very very difficult for me, since I had some problems staying awake long enough to walk to the bank, some two hundred yards from my home.

On the other hand, the house is in deplorable condition. No, really. The upper bathroom is an unspeakable horror. Ok, I can fix that in half an hour. The downstairs living room has spiders living happily in every corner, dust on every horizontal surface, and random piles of papers on most of them. Dead lizards under every piece of furniture too, no doubt. I can fix that but it would take longer than an hour, because among other things I'd have to sort the piles of paper.

(But, I have decided to move the table back to its original position. Emiliano had moved it parallel to the library to create a nook for himself to work in, and loved it, but I have never been able to work there, the space just doesn't seem right to me, and it makes the room generally harder to navigate. It's been two years, and the time has come to deal with the living room without emotional cobwebs interfering.)

The kitchen is pretty deplorable too, but it can be brought back to something resembling decency just by taking out the recycling stuff that's been accumulating and mopping the floor.

I contemplated all of this and was aghast, but then I decided to try it out and set to work on my bedroom, which I considered pretty much the most hopeless of the various tasks, since there were still piles of clothes in various states of cleanliness and packiness from my trip to the States laying around. Most of them had spilled out of the bags at some time or another and had been bunched up on various surfaces, ending up in baffling knots of fabric. Then there were the conglomerates of magazines, the sludge of books, and sundry archaeological stratification on the dresser, no wait, it was getting on to be geological stratification at this point.

I attacked the bedroom and in a mere hour I had wrestled it to the ground, having sorted t-shirts from All The Rest, then having sorted All The Rest into Underwear and Stuff That Is Clean But It's Gotta Be Ironed Oh Why Can't I Have A Dryer, having emptied the suitcase of the remaining sludge of objects, stacked the magazines, shelved the books, dusted every dustable surface, stripped the bed of covers and put on new ones (pause to chase out the cat doing a joyous impersonation of an hyperactive mole under the fitted sheet), and generally having, well, cleaned up. Wow. Amazing. This actually is doable. I should do it more often.

I can probably get away with letting the study moulder on a little while longer. My mum expects it to be a den of iniquity anyway.

So, today I felt a bit better, and I was all chuffed because I'd been publicly thanked for my contribution to making the Cinemessiah movie* (I've yet to receive lavish praise from LJ about that; I wonder why? could it be the 63 MB? hmmm?), the day was nice, and I decided I needed to get some exercise because my rotundities are getting, like, more round, so I went out in search of sushi.

Before the sushi though I went to the big Feltrinelly bookstore and was feeling pleasantly surprised by the length and breath of the skiffy shelves, when I became aware of a family group standing next to me.

Boy (about 12) "Oh, there, that's the Asimovs."
Father: "We can only spend 15 euros. Choose one of those and mark the others on your notebook."
Boy: "Yes, but these are just..."
Father: "Notebook, right? Get out your notebook."
Boy: "Dad, but these are only 8 euros."
Father: "Yes, but buy something else, not just the same Asimov."

Boy goes away. Father starts talking with Woman Family Friend about the Da Vinci Code, wondering if it is any good. From following conversation I gather Father and Family friends are high-school teachers, which explains the money constraints. They are shopping for books for the holidays.

Boy comes back.
Father: "But why do you go on reading these stuff for five year olds, eh? Can't you get something else?"

I turn and exchange a look of sad complicity with Boy.

Boy: "I _did_ get something else."

The something else was apparently one of those YA horror novelets.

Father: "But a real story, you know, real fiction, not this Sci-Fi stuff! You're too old for this stuff now!"

At this point I can't stand it any longer, I turn and I say: "I'm forty and I still read that stuff."

Father mutters. Family Friend intervenes saying, "But you know, in vacation, you wanna relax, read something you like..."

I told myself firmly: ANNA, YOU HAD SWORN TO YOURSELF TO GET A GRIP ON THIS IRASCIBILITY THING. SHUT UP AND MOVE OFF.

I move off. This costs me the acquisition of three books, one of which was a very enticing book of wok recipes.

I then go to the cashier to pay. I find my Feltrinelli card. I look for my ATM card. It's not among the credit cards. It's not in the bag. Nope, not even in the outside pockets were it was last seen.

I sigh. I go and get my sushi.

In the next table, one guy looks intensely at the geranium vases along the row of tables outside, gets up and starts picking at the dead leaves and flowers, lecturing his table companion about gardening. Loud. While I'm trying to read a book.

I get back home, I keep looking for my ATM. Not among the loose paper. Not in the bag once upended and sifted through all the mess. Not in the other bag either. Not in pockets. Not near the telephone. Located the receipt for the phone recharging which was the last thing I'd used it for. It's not there.

Awwwwwffffffff****.

Called the number and blocked the card. This means at least 60 euros. Blah.

* By J. I know. I know. Fact is, I've been feeling much better lately and consequently more mellow.