The single most important item you will ever need to live in the UK is....no, not an umbrella...but a gas bill! A gas bill is like the Holy Grail, the Elixir of Youth, the Fount of All Knowledge and indeed the Dog’s Bollocks all rolled into one. Without one, you are a persona non grata. Without a gas bill, you cannot open a bank account...and without a bank account you cannot rent a flat....and without renting a flat, you cannot get a gas bill, so you cannot open a bank account....you get the picture?
Me: “Hello. I’d like to open a bank account, please. Here is my passport, my driver’s licence, my employment contract, a letter from my employer, my first month’s salary cheque, my life savings, my dental records, a DNA sample, a urine specimen, my left leg, my right arm and my brother’s first born."
Bank Nazi: “You’ll also need to provide us with a gas bill."
Me: “I don’t have one yet, as I am staying with a friend until I can rent my own flat. Unfortunately I can’t do that until I have a bank account.”
Bank Nazi: [deep intake of breath] “You see, since 9-11 we have strict rules about who can open a bank account and we have to have evidence that you are who you say you are.”
Me: “What about my passport and my driver’s licence...both bear my photos and my name?”
Bank Nazi: “We would still need a gas bill. It’s proof that you live at the address you would provide. We need this to stop terrorists and money launderers, dontcha know?”
Me: “So....you guys install CCTV cameras at all your customers’ homes to check they really do live there and haven’t since moved or didn’t just get a friend to put their name on the gas bill? Also, they could still be terrorists and money launderers....who have gas bills!”
Bank Nazi: “Application denied.”
Eventually, the manager of a lesser known building society took pity on me and miraculously gave me a banking account....he was probably worried that a crying, slobbering, one-armed, one-legged woman begging for an account in exchange for unmentionable favours was upsetting the other customers.
And so the day arrived when we could finally move out of the home of our long-suffering-and-deserving-of-a-knighthood-or-a-Medal-of-Bravery-at-the-very-least Best Friend and into our own, very empty abode. We needed furniture in a hurry...so that would only mean one place: Ikea! Shopping at Ikea is never a fun experience...given a choice between a visit to the dentist and a trip to buy another Billy bookcase, I’d pick the molar inspection any day. I’d highly recommend you read UberGrumpy’s hilarious post HERE to get an idea of just how awful any trip to the Swedish flat pack furniture giant can be.
Our mammoth shopping trip that day was no exception. It was a Saturday, and the place was heaving. Half the population had decided that as they were sick of their children screaming at home, they would spread the joy and take them shopping for a new coffee table...in a great big warehouse with just the right acoustics to really show off their vocal volume.
However, as annoying as naughty kids in a confined space can be, the elderly can be worse. At what age do you stop feeling the need to join a queue and instead just push to the front? Is it something to do with failing eyesight? Do you genuinely no longer see the massive queue of frustrated shoppers who’ve been waiting an eternity for the elusive Ikea staff to put in an appearance at the “Seek Assistance With This Item” point? Or do you just get to the stage when you think “F*ck you! I don’t have much time left on this earth and I sure as hell am not wasting any of it in a queue!” I think it’s most likely the second scenario... it certainly was the case for the old bat who pushed in front of us that day. Nothing wrong with her eyesight - I know this as we ran into her again at the checkout point, where she was in front of us paying for three items, all with different means....a cabinet (£299) paid for in 1p and 2p coins, an armchair (£80) paid for with newspaper coupons, and a bag of 100 tealights (£1.69) paid for with a credit card.
Two lifetimes later and we were through the checkout and contemplating filling the hired van with three trolley loads of flatpack boxes. It was peeing down and tempers were generally frayed. We decided the best plan would be for BF to go and fetch the van (which was parked in the next town), B would wait under the sheltered entrance with the trolleys and I would “reserve” a highly sought after loading bay. And so I came to be standing in the middle of an Ikea parking lot, in the pouring rain, hoping that a great big truck would not just blindly reverse into the loading area and merge my seething body with the tarmac...when who should come up to me but the queue-jumping, coin-packing old bat to ask me.... “Are you reserving this spot?”
“No [you stupid old cow!]...I just love standing in the bloody rain!!”
Grrrrrrrrrrrr!!!!!
Luckily I managed to restrain myself from wrapping my hands around her scrawny neck and squeezing the last little bit of life out of her that day. Otherwise, I would have been held at 'Her Majesty’s Pleasure' and therefore not been at our new flat when, one month later, that magical envelope bearing our very first gas bill was pushed through the letterbox and landed with a satisfying yet gentle thud on our doormat.
Today, that gas bill is framed in gold and is on display in pride of place (the downstairs lavatory) such that all who visit our humble home may ponder the significance and the power that seemingly worthless piece of paper holds, while they worship at its throne....
