I wanted to write about heavy stuff this week, I really did. I wanted to impress Steve, who wrote to me saying I was a dismal thicko disgrace. Sorry, look away now Steve. The last week has been such a shambles that I haven't had time to focus on anything other than my own dopey suburban matron problems.
I've been on to the insurers about my recent burglary and have had no car as it has been getting a dent taken out after some random bint backed into me. When I was poor I didn't have insurance and another dent in the car went unnoticed. Come to think of it, I didn't have a car. Yes, I know being poor would be stink but at least you would have important problems to deal with, like sleeping in a garage.
And at the other end of the pecking order, if you were on the Rich List which came out last week you could worry about whether your superyacht got coined. Both sound more satisfying than my embarrassing bourgeois concerns.
Yesterday my credit card got declined at the Skin Institute. Turned out my 6-year-old daughter had run up a $1500 bill on an iPad game called Pet Hotel. The app itself was free but she didn't realise the coins she was using were real money.
I also had a scrap with SkyCity, the sort of futile fight that indigent battlers and rich pricks would be too sensible to bother about. I almost got my 80-year-old mother run over while trying to pick her up at the bus terminal in SkyCity in Auckland.
