I can’t tell if I’m more angry with myself or with the system.
So I fucked up. I drove a car that was not yet insured. It was insured in my head because all I needed to do was click go. But crucially … I hadn’t clicked go. I’m in a bus heading masked to spring it from the pound now.
I went to the post office to sort tax. The counter clerk told me that I couldn’t get it taxed with just a photo of the new keeper supplement. I’d have to pay £25 for a new log book I was told. The photo is no good. The counter clerk was completely wrong, but thankfully I sensed they didn’t give a crap. I didn’t let them steamroll another £25 out of me. I sorted it online. I should’ve done it all along. Still, unhelpful fucker. Spots. Lots of annoying spots next Tuesday for them please.
Once it’s out of the pound I’ll probably have to live in it, because the parking permit money is going on the pound release so the car will be under threat from wardens between 8.30 to 6.30.
Meanwhile I was woken up by an automatic phone call from Thames Water. They want £50 more than the fine I’m about to get in the post and have clearly been picking their moment. I’m just going to bury my head for now.
I’m fully expecting somebody at the pound to tell me my treads aren’t legal or there’s a reason why I can’t drive it away or whatever other obstructive nonsense they decide to make up. I’ll likely have to push it through the gate anyway as I can’t imagine the coppers will jump start it for me. They’re not there to be helpful. But I’m going to try to get them to be. I’m attaching a happy face. I’ve done all the admin. Let them do their worst.
The weird thing is how different my anger is now to how it would’ve been ten years ago. Ten years ago would’ve been screaming incandescent rage. Five years ago would’ve been simmering weeping resentment. Right now? I’m getting on with it and meeting all the little resistances with a kind of exasperated silent activity. And writing about it here. I’m angry, yes.
But it’s done. Being angry won’t change it. The letters will say what the letters will say. Eventually everybody will get their money but me. All I need to do in the meantime is the basic work to pay that money, somehow, when the only acting role went elsewhere and the industry feels to be boiling on the edge of an irretrievable collapse, carrying with it the hopes and dreams of most of my favourite people.
About time I got resourceful again. No point just despairing for the future of my industries. Time to activate again somehow.
In times of change and advancement, tendrils of the past can cling on and try to stop us forging forward. In this fearful and judgemental and depressing time I’m trying to spread new wings. The whole of this city is mired in terror – the whole of the world is in shock. Nobody is supposed to be trying to fly. It’s almost an act of defiance to be happy. That’s why I’ll keep on flapping my arms around even if I hit myself a bit in the process. And that’s why I’ll beat every one of those coppers with smiling. (*Edit : They tried to keep obstructing with this thing they’ve made up about how your insurance policy needs to specifically cover collecting from a pound. They are utter scum. My insurance company was lenient thank God.)
I’ve got a fully paid off credit card. It’s a shame knowing that it’s swinging back into red. But what a privilege to even have the option.
This is just a momentary stumble. Two steps forward, one step back.
But generally it feels like dark dark times right now. I’ve never seen so much flat despair on my social media. I have to work hard to remind myself to keep positive, even in the face of my own incompetence and the reminder that the law is an ass.
Let’s look after each other actively. It’s getting dark out there. Hold hands.
AlBarclay 