HBOS called me today. I was quite surprised. Usually when people’s actions are so controversial they end up vilified all over the news, a low public profile often follows. Yet here were HBOS, the most topical thing of the moment, phoning me up casually as you like, personally inviting me round to there’s for a chat. Whatever next, I wonder. Bin Laden popping round for a scone?
They want to talk to me about what might be best for my savings. Previously, the extent of my relationship with HBOS had been conducted solely through a numerical keypad, and an odd letter of correspondence going on about home insurance, or something I’m equally ambivalent about. Yet now their offering me personal time and I don’t even have to pay for it. They just want to sit down with me and give me some advice, just like a friend would. How lovely.
To be honest, I’m not sure how much interaction I feel necessary to have with my bank. I know they only have my best interests at heart, but the ‘keeping my wages for me to withdraw whenever I want without any required dialogue’ thing we had going on was working for me just fine. Exactly how much value is there, for either party, in a man to wittering on about savings, shares and investments to another man who won’t understand a word, and will eventually get pre-occupied by what variety of Gregg’s pasty he’ll be treating himself to for dinner?
Clearly I am not well-versed in the world on banking, and it is perversely for this very reason I’ve decided it might be quite sensible to go on and see them. After all, I do want what’s best for my money. I wouldn’t want to end up doing something stupid with my savings, like one day suddenly stuffing them all in an envelope marked “London” to find their way into the hands of some blundering coke-head, giddily reeling about the grimy City streets with a gutful of champagne. Surely that’d be one of the worst thing I could do. Maybe second only to giving them straight to Howard, the chap off the adverts with little round glasses, who has a tendency to suddenly start surfing, despite the fact he’s wearing a suit, or break into contemporary pop music, despite the fact he can neither sing nor remember the real lyrics. That man is so irritating it borders on being tragic. Nearly as tragic as my sudden realization, that by being an HBOS customer, then really I actually must have paid Howard by default. Brrr.
In reality you don’t see much of the prancing banker nowadays. Presumably, given the financial state there’s no longer any room for knock-about jolly bank adverts. In an attempt to rebuild customer confidence, I expect we’ll start seeing more serious vague advertising again. Now HBOS have been bought out, I expect the Lloyd’s horse figurehead will start making a more frequent appearance. Which seems a little unfair. It’s not really Howard’s fault that the whole economy started to collapse. The bloke must be gutted. Imagine how demoralizing it would be, having to explain how you lost your job to a horse. Poor Howie. He may have been irritating but at least he was harmless. I genuinely hope Lloyds/HBOS will keep him on in some role or other. Even if it’s just a job mucking out the stables.
Thu 12th Feb 2009
Sleepless nights.
Honestly, they’re my worst nightmare. At least with my worst nightmares, I actually get some form of sleep – no matter how harrowing it is.
It’s so annoying. I don’t remember being troubled by this affliction as a kid. Maybe now and again when there was a reason – like getting over-excited the night before Christmas or something. But surely I am not over-excited about the pending day of work which faces me in the morning. Why should tomorrow be of any particular relative joy? Surely it’ll be the same mundane working day as ever. Except I’ll be dead knackered.
So many theories about how to cope in this situation. I definitely shouldn’t move. My brother in law reckons it’s best to keep perfectly still. Don’t look at the clock. He says you may as well give your body some rest, even if you can’t rest your mind. There’s certainly a logic there, but my mind always starts feeling neglected. If I’m not getting myself all worked up by blowing day to day incidents out of proportion, I’m busy convincing myself how my chin has an itch to scratch, or that I’m feeling the first dewy remnants of a wee in my bladder and I should probably go to the toilet now. I’ll give myself any self-loathing excuse to not keep still. The only rule I honestly manage is avoiding the sight of the clock.
The other school of thought is to take your mind off your problem by getting up and doing something else for a while, like watching television. But what’s on at this time? Channels 4 and 5? Oh joy. Niche sports.
Believe me, I’d rather poke my own eyes out than spectate even the most mainstream sports. The thought of watching specialist sports whilst in a state of sleep deprivation is enough to depress me to my own suicide. It is a mere one rung higher on the desolation -stakes than ITV’s NIghtscreen. Officially the loneliest place - not just on the planet – but the whole desolate, pointless universe. It is the televisual equivalent of a Pot Noodle on Neptune. But in a bad way.
BBC’s News 24 isn’t much better either. Ok, so the newsreader is a human being talking straight to you live and alive, at the godforsaken time of whatever. And you might even briefly fool yourself into believing this is some sort of ‘company’ through your silent hours. But you’re always aware that newsreader has another agenda. He or she is just a fair-weather friend selling you short. It’s ok for them; before another day of work, they’ll be looking forward to clocking off and getting to bed. But you’ve got to get up early. They might as well be some parasitic killjoy nicking your last can whilst simultaneously informing you the party’s over. And that clock too. Permanently there in the corner of the screen. FOR GOD’S SAKE DON’T LOOK AT THE TIME. It’ll only depress you further, telling you how many ‘X amount of hours’ you’ve failed to sleep. Or how terrible you should feel tomorrow morning having only had ‘X amount of hours’ sleep. It’s best not to know these things. Ignorance is bliss. You’ll only torture yourself.
So this morning I’ve lay awake, trying my best to ignore the clock, but still being silently curious of the time. In fact I’ve applied so much energy frustrated by my curiosity, that the next thing I see is the beginnings of dawn beginning to break through the window. Such a sight is my final horror. At this point, there is nothing left to do but admit defeat. There’s no point in even trying anymore. I might as well just surrender to the fact my alarm will be sounding soon, and I will need to face another horrific, sleep deprived day of work. And at that point my mind’s torment seems to loosen. Having given up at the 9th hour, I am finally released into a…
zzzz…
Honestly, they’re my worst nightmare. At least with my worst nightmares, I actually get some form of sleep – no matter how harrowing it is.
It’s so annoying. I don’t remember being troubled by this affliction as a kid. Maybe now and again when there was a reason – like getting over-excited the night before Christmas or something. But surely I am not over-excited about the pending day of work which faces me in the morning. Why should tomorrow be of any particular relative joy? Surely it’ll be the same mundane working day as ever. Except I’ll be dead knackered.
So many theories about how to cope in this situation. I definitely shouldn’t move. My brother in law reckons it’s best to keep perfectly still. Don’t look at the clock. He says you may as well give your body some rest, even if you can’t rest your mind. There’s certainly a logic there, but my mind always starts feeling neglected. If I’m not getting myself all worked up by blowing day to day incidents out of proportion, I’m busy convincing myself how my chin has an itch to scratch, or that I’m feeling the first dewy remnants of a wee in my bladder and I should probably go to the toilet now. I’ll give myself any self-loathing excuse to not keep still. The only rule I honestly manage is avoiding the sight of the clock.
The other school of thought is to take your mind off your problem by getting up and doing something else for a while, like watching television. But what’s on at this time? Channels 4 and 5? Oh joy. Niche sports.
Believe me, I’d rather poke my own eyes out than spectate even the most mainstream sports. The thought of watching specialist sports whilst in a state of sleep deprivation is enough to depress me to my own suicide. It is a mere one rung higher on the desolation -stakes than ITV’s NIghtscreen. Officially the loneliest place - not just on the planet – but the whole desolate, pointless universe. It is the televisual equivalent of a Pot Noodle on Neptune. But in a bad way.
BBC’s News 24 isn’t much better either. Ok, so the newsreader is a human being talking straight to you live and alive, at the godforsaken time of whatever. And you might even briefly fool yourself into believing this is some sort of ‘company’ through your silent hours. But you’re always aware that newsreader has another agenda. He or she is just a fair-weather friend selling you short. It’s ok for them; before another day of work, they’ll be looking forward to clocking off and getting to bed. But you’ve got to get up early. They might as well be some parasitic killjoy nicking your last can whilst simultaneously informing you the party’s over. And that clock too. Permanently there in the corner of the screen. FOR GOD’S SAKE DON’T LOOK AT THE TIME. It’ll only depress you further, telling you how many ‘X amount of hours’ you’ve failed to sleep. Or how terrible you should feel tomorrow morning having only had ‘X amount of hours’ sleep. It’s best not to know these things. Ignorance is bliss. You’ll only torture yourself.
So this morning I’ve lay awake, trying my best to ignore the clock, but still being silently curious of the time. In fact I’ve applied so much energy frustrated by my curiosity, that the next thing I see is the beginnings of dawn beginning to break through the window. Such a sight is my final horror. At this point, there is nothing left to do but admit defeat. There’s no point in even trying anymore. I might as well just surrender to the fact my alarm will be sounding soon, and I will need to face another horrific, sleep deprived day of work. And at that point my mind’s torment seems to loosen. Having given up at the 9th hour, I am finally released into a…
zzzz…
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