In which I show my age

I'm becoming middle-aged. I was watching Grumpy Old Women with the mother the other evening and spent the whole program leaping into the air, screeching, 'Yes! That is so true!'. In contrast, the mother spent the entire program slumped in the corner ignoring me and downing flagons of wine. She is a genuine old woman. I am sham.

Two weeks ago my bank reissued my ATM card for no apparent reason and cancelled my old card without telling me. I only found out when my card stopped giving me money and the ATM started cackling at me whenever I passed it. On calling the bank's helpline a moronic-sounding individual informed me of it's cancellation and of my new card awaiting me in Thomas Street in Inchicore. 'But I live in Tramore now.' I said meekly.
'You'll have to ring them then. Can't do anything from here, I'm afraid' he replied.

So I rang the Thomas Street branch. They didn't have it. I rang my own branch, in Donnybrook. They didn't have it. But they put me on hold for twenty-five minutes to check just in case. As I am wont to do, I apologised profusely to the idiot on the other end of the phone for bothering them, for wasting their time, for being such an inconvenience but would they mind terribly if I ordered a new card as it ever so slightly troubled me, having no access to my money? After all, what if I needed money suddenly, late at night to buy drugs or pay a ransom or something? THESE THINGS HAPPEN. I WATCH MOVIES, OKAY?

Alright, she said, but I would have to ring up my branch in Tramore to have it sent down because God knows they were much too busy to be bothering with stuff like actually helping their customers. So I did. And a week later, Tramore still hasn't seen it. Two cards lost in two weeks. Neat work.

Typically I have no emotions and am dead against expressing any that suddenly spring up, so I am a small bit ashamed to tell you that I was slightly irritated by all this messing about. What am I going to DO about, I hear you ask. I'll tell you: I'm going to sit down tonight and write them a stern letter. And then I'm going to sort out my pension and take up knitting. And slowly slip into my twilight years.

MORAL: DON'T MESS WITH LUCY. OR SHE'LL WRITE YOU A LETTER.