Well, baby, if there's a smile on my face it's only there to fool the public. I was forced on Friday to take drastic measures when talking to the people at the local BA. Despite the girly pink wrapper on this blog (skin - I think the cogniscenti call them), I'm not a girly girl. Or even a girly woman. I'm normally a pragmatic, businesslike and no-nonsense kind of a soul.
Ringing the BA every day to see wtf was going on took its toll, though, and when I finally got through on Friday morning and was told that contrary to what had been said on Tuesday (that the claim was on the system and was about to be paid) it was in a queue still waiting to be processed; it was in fact not on the system at all. Furthermore, there was a large backlog.
I lost it and started wailing about the fact that I now had no money to visit my husband in hospital and blubbing. The woman got the paperwork in a bid to calm me down and leafed through and came to the conclusion it was quite straightforward and would only take about five minutes to process. Cheers for that - I already knew that or I wouldn't be hassling you everyday. Anyway, she said she try and get it moved to the front of the queue. I came off the phone feeling rather aghast that I'd actually cried in front of someone not sitting next to me at a cinema re-release of Truly, Madly, Deeply or someone I was related to by blood or marriage.
Don't get me wrong, I cry at the drop of a hat in front of those very specific groups of people - I even cried at the wedding of Peter James Andrea and Katie Price last night on Sky Mix. I try never to drop my guard infront of members of the bureaucracy or to use my tears to my advantage. This is a policy I will be ditching forthwith as on Saturday morning a nice fat giro for gazillion of our British Pounds floated down and landed on our non-existent doormat. So now we're practically solvent again.