Twice last week came ample evidence I’m a fully paid-up bampot.
The worst thing about my (Homer) Simpson double “d’oh” was having to fess up to my kids. They damnt near confiscated my mobile.
First gaffe came on Sunday (May 17) as I lounged in front of the telly, heidie nae switched to max. A text from Royal Mail, saying a parcel for me had a shipping charge of £2.55. Pay it now, get it Monday. (Those of you in the know will already be saying: “Oh no, Mo.”)
I was waiting for a package from Amazon, which might have hailed from abroad. So I paid with my John Lewis credit card, including security number at the back.
They also asked for a memorable name. So I gave the one I use most. I know, I know. “Scaaam!” should have been exploding through my napper. But it didn’t.
I feared losing thoosands
Then came the message that my card details had not been recognised, with a grid to enter my bank account and sort code. No, I wasn’t doing that – actually (and shamefully) more out of tiredness than suspicion. So I left it at that.
Fast forward to Wednesday 7am as I lay in my scratcher and spotted on Facebook a warning about a Royal Mail text fraud. Rearrange the following: parrot as a sick. Panic, panic. I called the “lost or stolen” number on my card, fearing thoosands had been clocked up.
Fit a relief, only my own spending, but had to cancel the card ASAP. Five to eight working days before I’d get the new one. Shave-a-flaming-bandy.
Help ma boab – the freezer’s a fire hazard
My second burst of brain flatulence outed on Saturday morning, soon after my joiner arrived for his second day replacing kitchen flooring and work surfaces. I’d arranged to be oot the hoose most of the day, in toon for 11am, then lunch.
Around 9.30am, the gadgie discovered one of my two under counter freezers (the 20 plus years one) must have been overheating, leaving traces of black, melted plastic on top. Mummy, daddy, help ma boab – fire hazard. Needed new one ASAP.
Ye Gods, me with a vast refrigerator big enough to chill Angus the Bull
Still nae dressed, make-upped nor haired, for the second time in only a few days I zoomed into panic mode. On to the John Lewis website, spotted an integrated thingie, delivery Wednesday, pressed the button. Couldn’t use my cancelled credit card. Where’s my RBS debit card? They’d to refer me to the bank to double check it was me. Finally, done it.
A dis-integrated series of events
Affa late now, but quickly texted my quine to relate the burned out tale (me as well as the appliance.) Then, a new red ruddy alert.
The minute I texted: “I’ve just ordered a new integrated fridge”, I realised my elementary eejittry. It was an under coonter freezer I needed, but I’d ordered – and paid for – a fridge.
Ye Gods, me with a vast refrigerator big enough to chill Angus the Bull.
Hairtie poundin’, handies shakkin’, I on to the blasted laptop again, null-and-voided the fridge, grabbed a freezer in about a minute flat and caught my bussie into toon as it was arriving at the stop. Whaddaweek. Spik aboot dis-integrated.
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