Dreams Really Do Come True

HM the Queen Alighting From Royal Carriage

“Hey, look, there’s the Queen,” I said to Julian as we walked down the path to Horse Guards Parade.  

Julian is Rob’s cousin from a family line rediscovered.  He is Rob’s mother’s generation and Rob had invited him down to London to enjoy the pomp and ceremony of Trooping the Colour for the Queen’s 90^th Birthday celebrations.

Julian looked up from adjusting his suit and looked around. 

I pointed to the open carriage not a hundred feet away.  “There.  In the carriage, she’s wearing lime green!”

He looked again and seemed almost interested.  I knew exactly how he felt.  I was living my dream.

A Tale of the NHS

The waiting room on my second attempt.

"We have one less number to wait," the chubby woman with a barber haircut and slightly German accent said as she nodded to the floor below the ticket dispenser.  She was advising the couple who had just sat down and were wondering aloud how long they were going to have to wait holding the No. 89.  No. 85 was on the being-served screen and No. 87 was on the floor next to the water cooler.

Once the advice from the woman sunk in, the very tall African man stood and put one long leg over the coffee table and then the next, bent over, picked up the stray ticket and returned to his mate, ticket in his beak - I mean hand.  She was an aged rocker - lamb skin lined leather jacket, similar hat, big sunglasses and heavily made up.  She giggled and thanked him in her slightly Spanish accent as they nestled into their little love nest of chairs between me and the slightly German woman.  It was all a bit sickening given their age.

But, they were chuffed now - one number less to wait.  Unfortunately for me, I held No. 88 and was now three in the queue rather than two.  After I had sat down, I had seen No. 87 on the floor.  My view was there was no point picking it up as it would only take them a few seconds to realise and skip over it.  Oh, well, my mistake.  It wasn't like I had a lot to do that day since I had set the day aside for my first experience with the medical side of Britain's National Health Service (NHS).

A Supermarket Tale

A London Sainsbury's Supermarket

I never seem to pick the right queue at the supermarket check-out.  I pick the one that just opened and I wait minutes while the cashier settles himself in.  I pick the one with just one person ahead of me while all the others have two or more and as soon as it's my turn a cashiers shift change occurs. Then there is the one where the stick-on barcode has fallen off and the computer says, "No" and I have to wait until a human finds the price.  Or, the woman ahead of me spends five minutes hunting through her handbag for her loyalty card and then another ten finding her debit card.  OK, maybe those times are slightly exaggerated, but it's true -  I never choose the route to the quickest supermarket exit.

So, this morning as I approached the check-out with my basket the usual choice had to be made.  I saw they had about five registers open.  They all had two or three people plus the one being checked-out.  As I headed for the nearest one, I heard a manager telling a cashier to open register 21.  I checked the numbers.  I was at 26.   I turned and took a step toward 21, but was cut off by a fast moving woman with a full trolley.

Now, what?  I could continue on and be number one behind the woman with the full trolley or step back into my original target queue where there were two women waiting with fairly small collections of items.  I processed for a few seconds thinking what ever I do I'm going to pick the wrong one and I stepped back to where I had been.

A Tale of Resurrection

America In London

I'm dead.  I don't feel dead.  And, while I'm getting up there in years, I don't think I look dead either.  The usual signs like lack of a heart beat, pale skin, bloating, and hideous odours just aren't there.  Ok, well, maybe a little bloating, but you get that sometimes.  It alone doesn't mean you're dead!

According to Citibank, though, I died about three years ago and they reported as much to US credit agencies.  Being a huge multi-national bank, of course, they couldn't be wrong.  Could they?

I discovered my death when Rob and I tried to open a bank account back in the US after that horror of a bank, HSBC America, closed our account on a whim.  We contacted the bank branch that my family has been with for the past 35 years.  They were happy to do it all by email and we sent them the details.  A return email stated that while they were happy to open an account for Rob, their credit agency, Experian, said I was dead.  So, I could not be on the account.  And, so the saga began.

The bank told me I had to straighten things out with Experian and also get a letter from the Social Security Administration saying that my Social Security number was not "deceased".  A 35 year relationship obviously means nothing when the computer says, "No".

Where Has October Gone?

Autumn in London's St James's Park

It's Halloween and I was thinking today as I was walking through St James's Park on the way to a shop that I haven't written a thing since mid-September.  Then to drive home the point, I just checked emails and an avid reader had sent an email to say that he was disappointed that I hadn't written anything for six weeks.  Ok, so, it was a friend actually, but good to know some people are checking in.

To tide over my one adoring fan, here's a quickie.  Let's call it the Tale of the Odeon:

One of our visitors wanted to go and see Skyfall on Monday.  I've been out of the movie habit for a few years now, but conceded.  Since we haven't been to a movie since we arrived in London, I couldn't even think of where  a cinema was.  So, Rob asked around the office and I got on the web to figure out the where and when.  It's not as easy as you'd think when you don't know how it all works locally.

The office advice conflicted with the web advice, but eventually I settled on the 1:30 showing at the Odeon at Leicester Square.  We hopped a bus and then walked a little ways to the cinema.  The plan was buy tickets, have lunch then watch the movie.

It was about noon when we got there.  We joined the ticket queue with about twenty people ahead of us.  More joined behind us and there was one woman in the ticket booth.  Progress was slow.  As one neared the booth one started learning the drill.  It went, "I'd like x tickets for the one thirty."  The woman would say, "There's only the side and behind the screen," as she pointed to the theatre layout on the window.  Then the purchaser took their time choosing the best lousy seat.

When Bad Customer Service Goes Good

I just had one of those extremely frustrating yet eventually satisfying experiences with British customer service.

We're off to 'the Continent' for a holiday soon.  So, today was the day I planned to tick "Get Euros" off my list.

My last experience buying "Travel Money", as it's called, taught me that online is better than in bank.   That time, I'd checked the rate online at my bank's website and then toddled off to my local branch to buy my Euros.  On my way home, after doing some calculations in my head - never been good at maths - it hit me I'd paid a lot more than the online rate.  After some investigation, I learned that using the person at the bank costs a lot, and I stress A LOT more than ordering online where the bank incurs the added cost of home delivery.  Hard to believe, I know, but there you go.

Being an old dog that can learn new tricks, this morning, I went back to the website.  I filled in the order form, which takes some time.  Then went through the confirmations only to have the site tell me the order could not be processed.  I tried again.  Same response.  The computer said, "No."

I called the helpline offered.  After entering my birthday, sort code and account number, I couldn't remember the telephone banking PIN we chose 5 months ago and never used.  After a few wrong guesses, the pressure was really on because the computerised voice told me if I hung up I'd be locked out and then went back to demanding the correct numbers.  Eventually, I got it right and reached a human.

A Down And Out Tale - Maybe

Yap, yap, yap. Yap, yap, yap.  "What the hell is that dog on about," I thought as we walked along the Boulevard de Poisonnere on a cool Paris Sunday morning.  The yapping continued. Then, outside of a corner café the mutt came into view.  It was small, about the size of a wharf rat.  It looked like one too, but perhaps with taller legs.  It was on all fours with its tail curled up over its back and was standing next to a disheveled middle aged woman seated on a dirty blanket spread on the footpath.  She was begging.  The woman was trying to quiet the little bugger, but he was not giving in.  He kept on yapping and as we reached them, out of the corner of his eye we made eye contact.  There was no doubt he was on a mission.

The attempt to quiet with words had not work.  So, the woman finally capitulated and from under her bag very reluctantly pulled out some food.  It wasn't just food scraps either, it was packaged dog food - gold plastic base with a silver foil top.  At least, I assumed it was dog food, I guess it could easily have been French pate given the packaging.  Let's just say it didn't look like the cheapest brand of pet food.  Anyway, as soon as Yappy saw that he was getting his way, he shut up and stared, waiting for her to open his breakfast.

We carried on walking and soon came across a man with another little mutt.  They were begging too.  They both looked down on their luck.  This little mutt was lying down with head on legs stretched out in front of her, sad eyes looking up.  There were three bowls.  One for money, one with water and one empty, presumably the food bowl.

A pattern was developing.  We arrived at L'Opera and as we crossed Boulevard de Capucines, there was yet another man with a little dog.  This little nipper was camel coloured and was eating a meal of bread and water - I kid you not.