Topping up on Christmas Day

This morning I received a text from my elder girl, a crie de couer, if you will, from the slopes of the Alps, where she is currently skiing with her sister and father.

This is the longest time my girls have spent away from me since they were born, and I was prepared to be absolutely miserable, missing them with a passion akin to that of Romeo and Juliet! However, I've had no chance to miss them, as they've both texted me frequently throughout the holiday. In the first two days alone, I received 17 texts from them. I say "them", but the texts were, in fact, from Lottie, who seems to have the necessary ability. Lizzy confessed on the phone last night that she doesn't really know how to text, as the predictive text confuses her. I think it's rather sweet that she doesn't yet know this arcane art.

This mornings texts were full of cheer, as my girls delved through their stockings (yes, I sent them with stockings!) and told me how much they were enjoying their presents. And then came the request. "Can u top me up please? Im running out of credit". Ah, the joys of the English language, in all it's many forms...

Returning to the point, after an abortive attempt to top up online, I decided to go to a local cashpoint machine and top up from there. Within the last year or so I've started noticing that this option is now available at many cashpoint machines. What a boon to the traveller who has insufficient credit to actually perform the top up from their place of vacation. As, indeed, I found it last year, when I sent out similar text requests to various friends and family to try to find a way of topping me up.

I pushed my card into the machine, Lottie's number at the ready, and the machine swallowed my card. After not so much as a gentle burp, the next victim was exhorted to "Please insert your card." It would appear that my luck this morning seems to be all bad. Perhaps I would be better going back to bed and waiting for Boxing Day? Perhaps not. I will thank technology for the wondrous invention of the mobile phone. I called my bank, while standing at the offending machine, and immediately spun my tale of woe. The card is cancelled, a new one winging it's way to me. Well, perhaps winging is not the right word. The voice to whom I spoke warned that they usually expect replacement cards to arrive within 7 days, but this is 7 working days... I suspect I'll see my new card next year, at that rate.

The point of this blog, though, is to question why on earth is SO DAMN DIFFICULT to top up someone else's phone. To do it through the vodafone web site, you have to register your debit/credit card against the phone. Which is all fine and dandy if it's your own phone, because they insist on sending the phone a code, which you have to type into the registration process to prove the phone is yours. Not only is the phone not mine, it's not ruddy well here. Why do they need to do that?

I can understand having your card registered, because there's the whole "you might have stolen that card" issue. This is fine, but I have no idea if I've got an account with Vodafone, and there's still the whole code-sent-to-the-phone issue mentioned above. I remember registering my debit card with the phone when we put in the new sim card, but, again, can I stress how the phone is not with me, it's in France. I can buy an e-voucher, but Lottie has to phone 2345 and type in the 12-digit number. Which means I have to text it to her (or Lizzy or her dad) and make sure I put the right number in.

What about Paypal, I hear you cry. You'd have thought Paypal, with it's registering of cards, would be willing to make topping up phones a bit easier. You'd be wrong there. I have googled until my fingers have blisters, but I can find no way to top up the damn phone from here without having a whole new account with vodafone, or going to a cashpoint machine. You can understand my reluctance to shove my remaining card into the next cashpoint machine, worrying that I'll have no way to support myself until the New Year brings my replacement card.

Friends and laughter on Christmas Eve - It doesn't get any better than that.

Last week I allowed myself to go on a Blind Date. Not, you understand, the Cilla Black variety, which would probably have turned out hideously ghastly, but the kind where a well meaning friend thinks to himself - "Hmm... She's way too geeky for me, but I've got this geeky friend..." And he can hear wedding bells already. I agreed for various reasons, not least of which was that I had nothing else planned for that evening, and I'd hate to let a potential Johnny Depp pass by without a look in!

So there I was, in the pub, chatting away with this chap. He's nice. Although I'm not sure that nice is quite sufficient for me - I think I'll have to add witty and urbane to my list of requirements. I had a moment of chuckliness when I found that he's from up North, and plays the trombone in a brass band. But I controlled myself - with effort. There was a moment of embarrassment when I realised that in their chat of restoring a Spitfire to it's former glory, my "Date" and my "friend" were, in fact, talking of the one made by Triumph, not the one made by Supermarine in the second world war. In my attempt to cover my confusion (having asked the question "Did you manage to make it fly?"), I blurted out that I had, in my youth, had sex in a Spitfire. After establishing that one had to be considerably younger and bendier than we all were now, the conversation righted itself, and continued, in a reasonably cheerful way until my "Date" let loose the information that he is the proud owner of not one, but two, Caravans! OK - I lost it. Unable to contain my mirth, every laugh line on my face crinkled, and guffaws ensued.

So what, you query, bewildered, has this to do with laughter on Christmas Eve? OK - I'm getting to it.

Last night I was attending the annual Christmas Eve bash hosted by my brother and his wonderful wife, an event peopled by the kind of friends you've kept with you over the years because, with them, you feel comfortable and happy. While my sister-in-law attempts to integrate new people into the happy core, that cheerful bunch arrive year after year and sit round chatting merrily. Last night I was compelled to mention to one of the ladies about the aforementioned Blind Date, detailing it in much the same manner as above. Her husband, a man of wit and humour (!), chuckled away with the rest of the crowd, until I told them that it was very likely that I'd meet this "Date" at the beer festival next year, he being a bit of a fan of the fest. At which point JD exploded with laughter, saying "I'm going to have to come up to you at the beer festival and remind you that I still have that Spitfire, if you want to try it out again!"

Now I'm not saying that beer fest is in anyway boring, but this would definitely be a way of making the evening more fun. I think I would have trouble keeping a straight face!

Merry Christmas to all my Readers!

God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen

You know, I'm always finding something to grumble about with regard to Christmas - if it isn't the shops with Christmas stock and decorations up as the children head back to school for the new academic year, it's the spotty oiks trying to get money out of me by turning up at the doorstep and launching into a half-hearted "We Wish You a Merry Christmas" so pathetic and out of tune that you'd almost be inclined to pay them just to leave!

In fact, in the past I've promised to put up a sign on my door, to compliment the one stating that we don't buy or sell on the doorstep (a sign which afforded me much amusement on the occasion I asked, rather facetiously, of a doorstep salesman, if he'd read the sign, only to have him back away apologetically when he did), clarifying that unless you're prepared to give me at least 2 verses of "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen", you're not going to see a penny of my money. For while the spotty oiks are annoying in a feeble way, what's really getting me started are the Rotary people - you know the ones, they turn up in your street with a carnival float pumping out Christmas carols through speakers which have heard better days, and this is supposed to encourage me to give generously?

So this very evening, sitting with my girls, chatting, watching the telly, I was horrified to hear what sounded like the idiot from the house behind us (who really does have some VERY good car speakers!) sitting in the road at the front, playing some kind of rap while waiting for his friend to come out. Only when I opened the door to deliver a lecture (at least the idiot listens to me when I ask him to turn down the music) what did I discover? Yup - you've got it - the ruddy Rotary Club, and their "updated" Christmas CD and carnival float.

While I can't remember exactly what I snorted in disgust as I slammed the door, it was clearly sufficient for the collector attempting to open the garden gate, who gave up at this point, and so I was never exhorted to give.

All I have to contend with now are the spotty oiks. Perhaps I should write that sign after all. I could probably get it laminated...