This is why I hate computers....

Intermittently I earn my keep by ploughing through all the piles of paper on my desk: pay the lawn chap, sort out turning on the reticulation, downloading claim forms for medical bills, organizing T's hectic social life and changing my address on my UK Bank account.

This last one is held at a Well Known British Banking Institution, and necessitates you typing into the phone key-pad card numbers, date of birth, security codes, best-friend's dog's icense number before you can even speak to an operator - who then REALLY grills you. Now my English bank account is there purely as Running Away Money (or, Dash Cash), which, admittedly isn't going to get me very far at the moment as it only contains $2.52. But it's there should my US cards ever get zapped, or I need an extra couple of bob to tide me over to the next Rapture. So I find it a bit annoying when I have to try and remember the exact last time I bought something ("Umm, Jackie magazine in 1986?"), or the number of direct debits, passwords for on-line banking which I never use, etc.

So, this was going to be an easy one.

I wanted to change my address.

So I call the UK, get through all of the above dialog and the lady says to me, "Ah, I see you do not have the necessary security layer set up," (there's more?), "So I will need to send you a form. To your new address. Could you spell it out for me please?".

And this is why I hate computers.

Drive-Thru Life

We went to Colorado last month for a weekend. I was extremely impressed by the drive-through cigarette shop, although the drive-through post-boxes here take some beating. Bridgjo found an original share certificate for the Isabella Gold-Mine, which was accepted as The Official Souvenir (in Disney, it was a plastic snow-globe of the Little Mermaid, so I am happy that T's tastes are improving). It was bitterly cold, and I was a bit grumpy that I had forgotten to bring my ski-jacket. On the Sunday I went out wearing every single item of clothing in my possession, including several pairs of knickers, one of which doubled-up as ear-warmers.

We'll be staying for another two years, it seems, so maybe I'll be unpacking some of those boxes soon. Unfortunately, not until we manage to ascend the K12 of paper-work which is Renewing Your Visa. It starts by forcing you to take at least 4 hours per application on-line (the system crashes more often than...than...ANYTHING! (apologies, but after that evening I found it quite difficult finding humour in anything for a quite a while), then making sure all the documentation has been completed correctly by the company (which still managed to spell bridgjo's name 3 different ways, and put on our Australian address where we haven't lived for the past 5 years). Then it's the gentle teasing and joshing that is Organising Your Interview. Yes you can go to Montreal...oops, no you can't...how about Quebec?...no, too late, you hovered too long over the mouse...Halifax then?

So Halifax it is...known for its slogan "Halifax...It's a Blast!" (no, not really), and for being next to the Estate Agents in Baxtergate.

T has just completed a week of exams. These are for the French Government - the American's are next year. She had four days of 4 French tests, and 4 maths. I'm not quite sure she completely Got It, but I'm certainly interested in how she is progressing. So the next blog will either be very braggy, or very fibby. ("So,yes, we are thinking she should be doing the Chinese immersion this summer....").

The picture shown at the top was done courtesy of Wordle - an extremely addictive application.