I think I must've been living in a hole in the ground over the past year.
I have just discovered the Wedge Card, a cool card that gives you discounts for local, independent shops around London. The Wedge Card costs a mere tenner (with £5 of that going to a worthy charity - local, of course). and it was launched in December 2006. The people behind the card say: "Wedge is the little man. The local independent shopkeeper and all the locals who love the fact that their High Street hasn't fallen prey to the large multinational large chain, turning it well into well, a faceless, desensitized "brand only" environment."
Even though little men don't really do it for me, personally (sorry, bad joke, couldn't help it - low on blood sugar), I'm really turned on by the Wedge Card right now. I've gone and signed up for one, and I wish more Londoners knew about it.
A quick flick through the discounts on offer turned up:
The Design Museum
Nina and Lola (hip online fashion store)
Crockatt and Powell (yay for my fave independent bookshop)
And there are lots more. So if you're a Londoner, please sign up for a Wedge Card now, here . You won't regret it, especially once you've made a couple of small purchases, because it will pay for itself. (You'll probably also feel quite smug and pleased with yourself for supporting local shops too.) It's just a pity that I won't be around in London much longer to use it.
So that defines my new mission: to shop more at independent shops this year. I already do try to shop locally, but sometimes I get lazy. Now I have a new excuse to avoid the Tescos and the Asdas and the Selfridges of this world. It's my new mission, dammit. Make it yours too.
Wednesday, 30 January 2008
Thursday, 10 January 2008
Mission 022 - Money, happiness and con-men
The Buckwell and I have just sold our flat. We made a reasonable sum of money on it. This got me thinking about whether money really can buy happiness. Certainly for me, the moment I saw the bank account balloon was a source of great excitement. But that excitement fizzled out about as quickly as a cheap Catherine Wheel.
The letter from the property lawyers turned up, giving the breakdown of the whole transaction. So in my practical, skeptical way I went through it, item by item. And one item I didn't like the look of. For some reason, we have been charged rent payable of £230.49. Quoi? We've had a lot of trouble with our solicitors; they've been generally hopeless. But I will refrain from mentioning the name of the firm thus far, until the Buckwell chases the discrepancy up tomorrow.
In the meantime, I have been stewing over it in my head, mentally scripting the complaint letter and scheming to garner as much negative publicity for them as I can. After all, nobody rips me off and gets away with it. Well, that is unless you are a papyrus seller in Cairo, a camel driver hawking rides around the Pyramids, a carpet seller in Aleppo, a spice seller in Marrakech, a jewellery merchant in Sousse, or a furniture transport company in Denmark. (But I'll get them back too, eventually.)
My, I do sound like a vengeful sort.
Money doesn't buy happiness, but losing it can mean unhappiness. Particularly when you lose it through property lawyers with no concept of customer service. Hmmm, perhaps service is the real issue here? After all, with the benefit of distance, I actually have rather fond memories of some of the other cons.
But I have decided that it's time to put a stop to it. My mission is to not fall for any more cons in 2008.
Have a happy new year.
The letter from the property lawyers turned up, giving the breakdown of the whole transaction. So in my practical, skeptical way I went through it, item by item. And one item I didn't like the look of. For some reason, we have been charged rent payable of £230.49. Quoi? We've had a lot of trouble with our solicitors; they've been generally hopeless. But I will refrain from mentioning the name of the firm thus far, until the Buckwell chases the discrepancy up tomorrow.
In the meantime, I have been stewing over it in my head, mentally scripting the complaint letter and scheming to garner as much negative publicity for them as I can. After all, nobody rips me off and gets away with it. Well, that is unless you are a papyrus seller in Cairo, a camel driver hawking rides around the Pyramids, a carpet seller in Aleppo, a spice seller in Marrakech, a jewellery merchant in Sousse, or a furniture transport company in Denmark. (But I'll get them back too, eventually.)
My, I do sound like a vengeful sort.
Money doesn't buy happiness, but losing it can mean unhappiness. Particularly when you lose it through property lawyers with no concept of customer service. Hmmm, perhaps service is the real issue here? After all, with the benefit of distance, I actually have rather fond memories of some of the other cons.
But I have decided that it's time to put a stop to it. My mission is to not fall for any more cons in 2008.
Have a happy new year.
Mission Update - Starting the year on a low note
Well here I stand before you, just over a week into 2008, with hanging head and shamefaced expression. I have failed two missions.
I had been going strong, staunchly resisting the chips from the canteen downstairs at work, but yesterday something inside me broke. I ordered some and ate them. They were actually pretty good. But I didn't feel so well afterwards. So there, my first confession is out. Now for number two.
I got also Jerome's flu - my excessive garlic and chilli concoction came to naught. The morning we got up to depart for Japan, I was tired and listless. My nose was hot, my throat felt like a piece of sisal was hitching a ride in it, and my eyes were watery. Halfway to the airport, the sneezes were coming thick and fast, along with lots of mucus. "I feel hot," I said to the Buckwell. "Feel my forehead."
He did. "No fever," he replied.
So I popped a couple of cold and flu tablets and tried to ride it out.
The flu tablets must've worked a bit, because British Airways upgraded us to Club class on the way over to Tokyo. However, it was obvious that I was really sick; I declined the Champagne on boarding, and went for an orange juice instead. Then, despite the fully-flat bed, movies on demand, and food on proper china plates, things went rapidly downhill. It all reached a head about 30,000 feet up, somewhere north of Ulan Batur, when I woke up after a short sleep, with a piercing earache, the shivers and a large trail of mucus winding its way from my nose to my mouth. I winced, and said plaintively to the Buckwell, "I think I have a fever".
Dutifully, he reached across and felt my forehead. "Nope."
So I curled myself up in the foetal position (what a waste of a flat bed), and shivered for an hour.
"What about now?"
"Sorry. You still don't have a fever."
"Oh".
Eventually, we got to Tokyo, and I soldiered on for a couple of days until my cold/flu faded away. By about the fifth day, I was back to my normal self. But on our penultimate morning, I woke up with a sore throat and ballooning neck glands. By the evening, I was exhausted and in bed by 9pm. "Damn," I moaned. "I think I'm getting another cold." The Buckwell reached over and felt my forehead. "Oh no," he said. "Now you really do have a fever."
I had been going strong, staunchly resisting the chips from the canteen downstairs at work, but yesterday something inside me broke. I ordered some and ate them. They were actually pretty good. But I didn't feel so well afterwards. So there, my first confession is out. Now for number two.
I got also Jerome's flu - my excessive garlic and chilli concoction came to naught. The morning we got up to depart for Japan, I was tired and listless. My nose was hot, my throat felt like a piece of sisal was hitching a ride in it, and my eyes were watery. Halfway to the airport, the sneezes were coming thick and fast, along with lots of mucus. "I feel hot," I said to the Buckwell. "Feel my forehead."
He did. "No fever," he replied.
So I popped a couple of cold and flu tablets and tried to ride it out.
The flu tablets must've worked a bit, because British Airways upgraded us to Club class on the way over to Tokyo. However, it was obvious that I was really sick; I declined the Champagne on boarding, and went for an orange juice instead. Then, despite the fully-flat bed, movies on demand, and food on proper china plates, things went rapidly downhill. It all reached a head about 30,000 feet up, somewhere north of Ulan Batur, when I woke up after a short sleep, with a piercing earache, the shivers and a large trail of mucus winding its way from my nose to my mouth. I winced, and said plaintively to the Buckwell, "I think I have a fever".
Dutifully, he reached across and felt my forehead. "Nope."
So I curled myself up in the foetal position (what a waste of a flat bed), and shivered for an hour.
"What about now?"
"Sorry. You still don't have a fever."
"Oh".
Eventually, we got to Tokyo, and I soldiered on for a couple of days until my cold/flu faded away. By about the fifth day, I was back to my normal self. But on our penultimate morning, I woke up with a sore throat and ballooning neck glands. By the evening, I was exhausted and in bed by 9pm. "Damn," I moaned. "I think I'm getting another cold." The Buckwell reached over and felt my forehead. "Oh no," he said. "Now you really do have a fever."
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