I got up a trifle later than intended, but was at the computer shortly before 8. By 12:30 I had written 3400 words and gone through email to get the remaining inked pages for Chance. I showered and dinked around online for a bit, then went down into Cobh with Ted so I could go to the bank.
I must digress for a moment on the topic of Irish banking. Or at least, banking with AIB.
We opened our account in Athy. In order to move our account to Cobh, we have to *close* the account in Athy, open a new one here, wait several days for it to be opened because they have to *mail the paperwork to Dublin* and *have it returned*, get new debit cards, and change routing numbers for my paychecks to be deposited. It is not a matter of simply changing the address. You actually have to go through all of this. You can open an account here, not put money in it--because peculiarly, Irish banks do not expect you to put money in the account when you open it--and close the other account after you've gotten the cards and everything, but *buh*. Furthermore, the Cobh branch *can't deposit money in our account*. They have to *mail checks to Athy*. What do they do, actually keep the money in the banks? Hasn't anyone told them it's all ones and zeroes in the big nebulous money cloud in the sky? It's like living in the 1950s. It's *bizarre*. (I am also told that Irish who go to America and can't use their ATM cards, which are called laser cards here and which are different from American money cards, feel quite strongly that American banking is terribly backward. I have no words. :))
Where was I? Oh yes. I was going to the bank. So it turns out that not only can you not deposit a check to your account if your account is in Athy and you are in Cobh, but you also can't wire transfer money from your account in Athy if you're at the AIB in Cobh. They have to send the paperwork to Athy. I'm afraid I crossed my eyes in utter exasperation at the poor woman behind the counter, although my exasperation was not at her, but rather at the system. Ugly American, I.
Anyway, having more or less managed to transfer money, or at least having managed to set the slow-grinding wheels in motion, I walked home, NOBLY PASSING BY THE FRENCH MARKET WHICH is ONLY in town for TWO DAYS and which had CREPES and BISCUITS (cookies) and pastries and sausages and jams and honeys and savories and and and. WAH.
I got home, walked the dog (good human!) and made a reasonably good dinner, except I waited to long to do that and may have accidentally snacked on a bunch of raisinets before getting to the dinner part. I hung about online some more, then spent a very nice couple of hours working on a drawing and watching (or mostly listening to) David Bowie videos.
I did this last thing because a while ago somebody, maybe logrusboy, asked me why I was the only person on LJ with Labyrinth as an interest but not David Bowie, and the answer was because I don't *know* anything about David Bowie except he's married to Iman. I've now listened to 27 of his 47 greatest hits, or something like that, and knew about 7 of them (and knew *of* considerably more than that), and have determined that in fact, his music is quite listen-to-able. Rather a lot more so than I was expecting, really, and good lord but his thirties were a good time for him physically. Even after all the drugs. My oh my.
Right. And now I've come to tell you all about my strenuous day, and now I'm going to bed. It's so hard to be me. :)
miles to Isengard: 220.5
ytd wordcount: 280,000