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Things That Really Upset Me

Do you know what really grinds my gears? Other than not being able to call this segment "What Really Grinds My Gears"?

It's that I have too much spare change and therefore I have no table space to store all the other worthwhile objects in my life, namely keys, a table lamp, my collection of Red Noses ("it's the nose that grows!"), ASDA Ultra Soft & Strong pocket tissues given to me by my ex-mother in law, a detailed and highly inaccurate booklet about Royal Mail overseas postal charges (see below), an expired NUS card, some sunglasses, a tennis ball, a Pria ballpoint pen, some bingo markers, an empty bottle of (Diet) Kick, two bottles of Robinsons (no apostrophe), some birthday cards, a rubber, a torn ticket to see Children of Men at the Odeon, some Golden Balls playing cards, a Revolution Vodka loyalty badge and a big hairband that most definitely does not belong to me.

Quite frankly, this is unacceptable.

"You know what the solution is, don't you?" said my Dad, Western Australia #2 Young Genius of the Year 1973. "You should pay for things with exactly the correct change."

He was right. I live for breaking into notes. If I have a note, I'll use it. If I have no notes, I'll get some more out and use those instead. I've been so blind to the truth! And, let's face it, anyone who hasn't been living under a rock for the past n-n-n-nineteen years (for which read: didn't bother going to the trouble of visiting my site last year, you senseless nobody, you) will no doubt be overtly familiar with my decidedly New Age stance on the penny sterling. And to anyone who has been living under aforementioned rock: you have no idea how many precious seconds of my life I dispensed with trying to hunt down that little entry for you to read, so quite frankly you'd better bloody read it.

So, this week, following my wise father's advice, I decided to be a good citizen and take lots of change with me to the shop and pay with that. No notes!

Well, that was a total disaster, really. First I tried to buy boxes and stamps for mailing out CDs and came 8p short because postal prices have conveniently gone up since, ooh, about a week since they last went up. So a pound coin came out and some more pennies went in. Next, I tried to buy a korma and two bottles of Robinsons (no apostrophe). I came 2p short and had to bail on a crisp tenner. And then, as if by magic, the precise same again for an 18-pack of Richmond sausages and a 3-pack of Turkey "It's Not Crispy Chicken" Escalopes.

Utterly demoralised, I've started resorting to putting pennies in collection tins - that's 'collection tins' with a pair of apostrophes surrounding the term (unlike Robinsons) because, as we all know, collection tins on the Bath University campus are clearly not part of any organised charity. (We all know this because the labels were visibly knocked up in five seconds on Microsoft Word and primarily consist of a text box that's not big enough to display its incorrectly-spelt contents, all in 12pt Times New Roman... of course.) This still does not solve my burning problem. I'm still being mobbed in the pocket by the fiscal equivalent of a tree: sparse, brown, traditional, but not so much bloody fun if it hits you from a starting altitude of 100ft.

My wallet is a non-standard Topman-bought accessory given to me for my 16th birthday by my ex-ex-ex-ex-ex. I'm attached to this wallet, obviously not because I wish to dwell in the past, but quite simply because it's a bloody good wallet. I can, however, definitely say that this wallet is really going to struggle avoiding an impending death warrant, its seams verging on burst mode because of all those shitting pennies. Why, thank you, Prime Minister Gordon Brown! Thank you for not getting rid of pennies! I know it's probably not your fault, but I'm going to blame you anyway! Fascist laughter!

I think we're all done here. I'm off to drink a whole undiluted bottle of R'o'b'i'n's'o'n's'. Happy Christmas!

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