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A haemorrhaging Dick

August 8, 2012

Two four-packs of beer for £7. Cheaper than buying two separately. Cheaper, in fact, than buying none at all, and so I actually spend more by keeping money in my pockets! True – you do the maths.

If you’ve come here expecting a lecture on applied logic then you may have come to the wrong place.

So then, honesty in anonymity, let’s be open about the idiocy that has infested this wallet since I was first allowed financial independence. Here are some examples of the times reason has taken a back seat, then fallen asleep and woken up confused in the wrong country. Dick here has over the years lost

  • £444 – the deposit on a grim flat I left early, calculating that my sanity and emotional well-being were worth more than staying to the end of the contract
  • roughly £250 spent on one of those dubious charity treks to the developing world, which combine an illusive sensation of adventure located safely within someone else’s parameters with a liberal smugness and a poncy holiday. I registered with this during a brief flaring of a feeling that I should take more risks and seek the unpredictable. Having come to my senses I found the payment was non-refundable. Yikes!
  • £500 spent on the deposit in an abortive house-share. The guy said several times he would pay me back but somehow never did. I learnt then the evidential value of paperwork, and to never trust anyone again.
  • circa £150 on a distance-learning course in journalism. Following the first assignment – wherein the tutor wrongly accused me of having made a spelling mistake – I thought at length how best to respond. In which time the period in which to cancel had run out and, once again, no refund.
  • whisper this, yes, whisper it with your breathiest whisper, somewhere between £60 and £80 on a session of hypnotism. Admittedly a low point in the tale thus far, but had it actually worked it wouldn’t be so bad. As said above, never trust anyone – especially never trust anyone who owns books on Reiki.
  •  two occasions when, due to poor time-keeping plus other issues in life generally, I had to get a taxi home from central London. The friendly sedative of time has worked its magic here and made me forget just how much I spent each time. I really don’t want to know.

And, rest assured, there are other occasions when seemingly significant sums of money have just dribbled through my fingers like easily renewable and non-valuable sand, many of which have been lost to the future observers of society. I somehow maxed-out my credit card in New York, then spent four years paying it off. Which time I decided would be a good occasion to punish it some more, in not-as-cheap-as-you’d-think-it-would-be Greece. A responsible adult might have looked with horror (and maybe even self-disgust) at the subsequent bill. Exchange rates, blah blah, so much voodoo. I abstained from calculations on the grounds that my maths wasn’t what it should be (a D at A level, I ask you), and that I was on holiday and so should be exempt from common sense.

Plus there is the modern system of shuffling money that doesn’t exist from one fictitious node to another. So a number appeared on my bank statement on the day I was paid? And now another number appears in another column? I have not seen this money, these virtual earnings. Show me precisely why I should tremble at the movement of arbitrary symbols from one column to the next. This is all a fiction. Money is a lie. I feel no threat from numbers. I’ll ride this baby until the wings fall off!

In my next post I’ll show you why this is true.

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