Halfway during this week I deleted my last blog. It was boring anyway. The kiss of death always seems to be when I mention that things seem to be going well. I think I even used the word 'calm'.
Silly me for saying this in the last week in January. I should have known better.
I wont bore you with the details but things really sucked by Tuesday this week. After a particularly brutal day of maneuvering ones way through boot-faced bank clerks and other important lower-middle-management, I'd completely had enough. "Fuck this" I said to my partner-husband that night on the balcony "This is too hard. I quit." .
.
"Have another glass of wine, sweetie" said the exhausted but pragmatic Baker.
"No" said I (unusually) "I'm taking a handful of sleeping pills and I might just not KILL ANYONE tomorrow, but I'm not promising".
On Wednesday things got even worse. When I tried to understand why we had another banking bloodbath on our hands (remember we have no banking clearing house here. Everything is done by cheque) I had one too many proverbial fingers waved in my face. The word "violated banking rules" was mentioned. This because we had the audacity to write outgoing 'checks' before all incoming 'checks' (which take between 6 -12 days to clear) had cleared. Please note the word all. On an average week we must bank about 100 cheques and write out at least 30. You try tracking that on your daily cash flows. Of course we don't have any overdraft facility. Don't be silly.
A red mist came over my eyes. I tried to count to 3. I did not manage.
"I'm trying to run a business here, honey" I hissed. It was not one of my best lines or one of my finer moments.
"But you cannot run a business Mrs Dawson if you violate banking rules, and you have violated banking rules, therefore we cannot allow you to violate banking rules, which you have violated".
I defy anybody to come back with a rational response to that.
"GET ME THE BANK MANAGER" I screamed inwardly as I swept myself away with as much righteous indignation as I could muster.
That night as I seethed on the balcony and comforted myself with a bit of rubbish chocolate, my front tooth crown fell out.
I looked like a witch.
At 8:30am on Thursday morning I found myself in the Big Corner Office, one very angry crone. The AC purred, the carpets were spotless, the Bank Manager looked like he actually cared. It felt like being with a Father Confessor. I wailed out 18 months worth of banking frustration. I topped it with the 'violations' story of the previous day . The esteemed gentleman actually cringed and we all had a good laugh. Then I pulled myself together and said "not so funny if you're trying to RUN A BUSINESS'. No, they agreed quickly, not so funny. Sorry.
Ways Forward were agreed. Paths were smoothed. Hands were shaken. I went off to the dentist. Nobody died.
Hell hath no fury than a menopausal Bakers Wife with a missing front tooth, as a few people found out this week. I do believe I might have been just a little bit scary.
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