There’s something stressful about going into your bank and talking ‘money’. You sort of dress up a bit to look trustworthy and hope you don’t look stupid.
So there I was, sweating in my jacket. Of course the weather gods decided today was a good day to start summer. When I arrived there was a note on the door saying the computers were down and they couldn’t help us until they were fixed. I went for a stroll around the block.
I found found myself going by the Royal Carre Theater, and the little theatre cafe opposite the back stage entrance. It put a smile on my face, as this is where – nine years ago – I had my first ever argument with G.. I’d never been back to that cafe. It still looked the same.
When I got back to the bank, the computers were partly fixed but the inside of the bank looked like Beirut and my account manager hadn’t had his phone connected yet so someone had to go see if he could see me.
‘Mortgage’ is a weird word. ‘Mort’ obviously comes from Latin mortuus, which means ‘dead’. ‘Gage’ is ‘pledge’. I wonder whether this has anything to do with the feeling that you are sticking your neck in a noose when you’re getting one.
Well, I knew nothing about them and now I do. Mr Bank Manager smiled, was friendly, poured coffee and spoke the same language I do (always a plus). He gave plenty of examples to make things easy to understand. Everything seemed attractive and rosy and no problem at all. My ‘free lance’ status didn’t bother them at all.
What bothers me is that now that the bank has caught a whiff of my desire to become their slave they will probably be on my case very very soon with other appoinments, more smiling faces and a dotted line to sign.
‘Do you make decisions logically or emotionally,’ I asked a friend on IRC earlier today. ‘Emotionally,’ he said. So do I. I choose emotionally between different colour sweaters and always end up with the wrong one. Imagine a 250000 guilder sweater.
So it’s ‘danger de mort’ – so many choices, so hard to choose… and my flat mate tells me, like she does all the bloody time, it’s my turn to clean the kitchen. F.O.A.D.