Woot. So I finally collapsed and sent off the cash for the
frame I have had sitting in Stanton Bikes warehouse (in my head it’s a warehouse like at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark – more likely it’s been taking up space
in their tea room in such a way as to cause all the employees to curse my name
as they try to make a cup of tea around it) for the last couple of months.
At least I hope I sent off the cash. I never realised just
how many different numbers and menu screens are involved in the seemingly
simple task of transferring cash from one English speaking country to another English
speaking country (England in fact – arguably the most Englishiest speaking of
all the English speaking countries).
What the fuck is an IBAN number anyway? You may consider that a rhetorical question. I did know what an IBAN number was at about 0800 this morning when I transferred the money – there was a long, veeeery detailed pop up box that gave me the full story. Very interesting it was. I could not of course tell you right now what an IBAN number is if you held a gun to my head and threatened to pour a box of those really angry red ants down my trousers.
What the fuck is an IBAN number anyway? You may consider that a rhetorical question. I did know what an IBAN number was at about 0800 this morning when I transferred the money – there was a long, veeeery detailed pop up box that gave me the full story. Very interesting it was. I could not of course tell you right now what an IBAN number is if you held a gun to my head and threatened to pour a box of those really angry red ants down my trousers.
While I am confident in my ability to follow onscreen instructions,
I was still dubious enough to email the nice people at Stanton Bikes to let
them know I had sent it and could they please be nice enough to email me back
when they get it...or if they don’t. Just so I can silence the niggling feeling
that I got one of the 875 account numbers wrong and accidently sent my 400 odd
pounds to some Slovakian Drug gang (assuming Slovenia does drug gangs).
I also made a polite request for details on their planned
means of delivery on account of the difficulties many couriers have finding our house
given that our street address - while perfectly legal and clearly on the data
bases of all the various Government organisations seeking to levy charges on me
for everything from the protection of my (non-existent) livestock from Ecuadorian
Sheep Blight to the possible inspection, if we feel like it, but probably not,
unless it’s at the most inconvenient time for you, of our septic system – does not
seem to appear on any maps held by anyone else.
We have an A4 page of very explicit instructions we send out
to anyone who is seeking to locate our house and even then, most of the time I
swear the despatch guys use them to wipe their arses on. I can only assume
there is some kind of McCoy/Hatfield (look it up) style, multi-generational
delivery company feud going on between the drivers and whoever it is we send
the instructions to. One of these guys dropped off a pair of shoes I ordered at
the local wine bar once and the only reason I got them at all was the staff
happened to remember it when I dropped in to get some milk.
I’m sure it’ll all go perfectly fine.
NEXT: Golden Ass My Arse.....
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