In Which Our Heroine Plays The Numbers Game
Today, children, for the not so mathematically inclined, the lecture will be all about numbers. But fret not, this is not a particularly mathematical lecture, it just involves numbers of two types. The numbers of my bank acccount, and the numbers of test cricket. Despite that phrase, there will not be an examination involved.

It is quite spectacular in this day and age what it takes to open up a bank account in this country. Somehow, a passport as proof of identity just isn't enough any more. I went down my first week at Kat's place and tried to open an account. In addition to my passport, they needed some kind of lease or bill or whatever sent to me to confirm my residence. Since I didn't have any of these, they had to take a letter from Kats as a "reference". After stating she had known me for 18 years and been a customer of theirs for 20, they sent off my form to be reviewed. I have yet to hear back, despite a few phone calls. You have to realise, this is for an incredibly basic account. No overdraft, not even a cheque book, and not a debit card facility. Basically, I would have one card with which I could deposit money in and take it out at cashpoints. Which, frankly, was fine until I didn't have it.

Here in England, standard practice is to deposit your earnings right in your account. Saves the hassle of cashing cheques, etc. This is partly because it is actually pretty hard to chash a cheque here without depositing it into your account - you can't just endorse and turn up to have it cashed without a letter from the person writing the cheque in the first place. So my last employer would run to the bank two days in a row, and then pay me out of petty cash. This led to me walking around every week with four hundred pounds in my wallet, terrified I would get mugged or lose the thing on the way home. And then it led to me saving money by literally stuffing it in my Dutch copy of "Miffy at the Zoo" figuring no thief would ever look in there. Oh, I am so clever it just pains me.

But now, after two months of effort, it turns out that really all it is about is who you know. And this time I know my new temp agency, who have an arrangement with their local Barclays. It took 24 hours and a copy of my passport, and now I have all the bells and whistles, except an overdraft as I don't want one. And given the problems I have had with my bank and identity theft in the States, I think i may well keep this one forever and a day. This also means the temp agency can now deposit my earnings directly into my account. Whee.

My friend Deborah, who understands me well enough to buy me a mug with a Shipping Forecast map on it, spent a little time in the midst of this process having to read some bizzarre fundamentalist website that explained how the cards and numbers, etc are all the tools of the Devil, and that how by having this account and my cards (which should arrive on Friday) I am now Doomed with lots of extra oooos to spend eternity in the Lake of Fire. So long as the Lake of Fire has yummy cabana boys, I'll be fine. Apparently, I am meant to be spending eternity suffering, not fooling around with Raoul the towel boy, but if I settle for a Raoul over a Sven for all eternity, it just might might be classifed as suffering. Either way, I plan to be buried with my life jacket. And my survival suit, if I can help it.

The other bit of numerology in my life at the moment is the Ashes. The Ashes are a bienniel cricket tournament between Australia and England, and date way back. Long ago (1882), but not that far away (The Oval, which is here in South London), when they had the first of these series, they burnt the bails and put it in a little teensy weensy trophy. You should see this thing. Very Un-American as it is just much too small. And from this stems a rivalry that honestly puts Red Sox v. Yankees to shame. Check out the Wikipedia entry on The Ashes for more detail on that one. Basically, there are five matches, and each one can last up to five days. There are breaks for lunch and tea, because this is England. If you are really dedicated, you watch the cricket with the sound turned off on the telly and the radio commentary. And if you don't know what you are watching, it can be a little hard to follow since both teams wear the same colour uniforms. White, white, white. With white accents. But if you have a basic knowledge, and lots of enthusiasm (I got hooked on cricket when I was in college) like I do, then one of the most exciting games ever finished on Sunday. I had nothing else to do but watch it even though it was a lovely day outside as I have sprained my back. There should be some kind of exciting story to that, to do with rowing, or mountaineering or biking or wild sexual positions, but there isn't. I just slept funny and then carried a bunch of heavy luggage and there you go, sprained back. Ow. And of course, when people see me limping around, they ask me "Did you do that rowing?" I want to say yes, and just can't. Hoping to work Monday, which I did, and having biked 20 miles on Saturday (which I thoroughly enjoyed, but was stupid to do with a sprained back) I spent Sunday completely horizontal and resting, and enjoying the fact that where i am currently housesitting (the cause of the luggage moving) had two cats, and a really big tv.In the closest test match ever, England won by two runs. 587-585. Yes, that was really the score. And yes, with that many runs being scored, it was still a fascinating game. A bit like ultimate baseball. Just not balls and strikes, but rather the intricacies of the leg before wicket rule, which I understand, but won't bore you with here. Lots of mental calculations going on.

Then came the last bit of numbers: what time to leave to get to Exeter. I have been offered an interview for a permanent, move to England forever job by a firm who does not currently have an opening, but anticipates one in the near future and considers my resume so interesting that they want to meet with me and discuss it going forward. After years of relations and boyfriends (what is it with boyfriends? A recent one who hadn't even graduated college seemed to think I was mad for getting so overeducated (which meant, of course, not spending time with him so I could go to class and get my LLM), and one prior to that just could not stop holding me up to his ex-girlfriend who worked in my field. By all accounts except his, she was neither good nor well regarded, and yet I was never going to be allocated one legal brain cell in comparison to this woman. Sometimes, you just learn to look the other way, and they learn not to bring it up.) wringing their hands about why I was getting all these degrees and why didn't I just get a real job (which was not for lack of trying), it is literally setting me aglow that someone wants to talk to me because my resume is so great. I knew all these honors would be worth more than just wallpapering my wall. I may not get a job out of this, but it is inspiring me to apply to more places just to see what happens. And that kind of self confident glow is worth more than anything else I have out of this trip so far.

Love
Anne