Disgusted

I'm thinking of wrapping myself and Hugo in cling film with just eye and nose holes, to try and prevent skin and hair falling from our bodies. Apparently that's what dust is made of and I can't stand dust. And cobwebs. And those horrible thready spiders which get into every corner and under every edge. I'm spring cleaning the house ready for Christmas. Already the kitchen cupboard with the bin inside is unrecognisable. By the end of December everything will be gleaming, including the two of us. I'll strip us of our protective covers on Christmas Eve and there we will be, gleaming, spotless. I can't imagine why no one else has thought of this. I'm also toying with the idea of covering everything in dust sheets, once they've been polished and cleaned. I think these exercises will be very labour saving.

We went into Fram this morning to buy a few things and the place was heaving. It could have been Aldeburgh, or Southwold on a summer weekend. In addition to the usual Saturday crowd who come in to the market there were countless visitors wandering around gazing at things, relaxed and pleased with themselves. I suppose it will be like this until September. Not many children around. For some reason their mothers think it will be fun to take them food shopping during the week, and so they throng the aisles nagging for sweets, cakes, ice creams while the mums get frazzled and the Co-Op or Waitrose staff vie with each other for who goes on the next tea break. I just hope I'm around when the first shop assistant lashes out at the shouty-at-the-top-of-their-voicy kids whose parents think they're cute and interesting but who everyone else wants to murder.

Talking of murder, yesterday I sat with a client who wanted to talk to someone at BT to discuss a phone line they had ordered but which was never set up. They ended up cancelling the order but were charged anyway, two direct debits not cleared soon enough incurring an overdraft of £16 - a lot of money to someone on benefits - and £85 cancellation fee which, not having been paid, had been handed over to the bailiffs. I sat for over an hour waiting for the right person at BT to help, being transfered from Billy to Jack and even once to a private number whose owner was mystified. After another long wait I excused myself to take a quick breather in the office, leaving the client holding the phone, only to be told there was a special BT number to ring. Within 2 minutes the matter had been cleared up, the £85 bill cancelled and a cheque for £16 winging its way. I've made a note of the number for my own use, and now plan to tell Twitter and Facebook friends what it is so that they can broadcast it to the nation. Disgusting. Just disgusting.