Vivaldi

Yeah,
okay,
the memorable security code
for my online banking account
is still the date of our anniversary
from when I first set it up another lifetime ago.

An outsider would suggest
that the reason I haven’t changed it
is because I think we’ll get back together one day,
that I believe it’ll become relevant again in the future,
that it’s stupid for me to be seemingly clinging on
to this sad little piece of history,
that I should’ve changed it to something else
the day after we separated.

And,
I’ll admit,
my heart runs into my ribcage a little too fast
each time I have to write it out
and I think to myself,
“I should probably change this at some point.”

But the truth of the matter is that
changing my security details would be
a fucking nightmare to say the very least,
and I’m not the kinda gal who willingly dives into nightmares.
It’s a gargantuan effort that I simply do not wish to undertake.
I’m lazy nowadays.
I only do things that I want to do.

Being put on hold
after speaking to an automated machine
using my keypad
and getting pre-recorded answers
that have nothing to do with my initial query
and then just shouting down the phone,
slowly and clearly,
“PLEASE CAN I SPEAK TO AN ACTUAL HUMAN BEING PLEASE THANK YOU,”
hearing a chirpy yet portending, “One moment please,”
then listening to Vivaldi’s Spring
for 40 minutes on repeat,
the grating violins only being interrupted
intermittently by the sound of a robot woman
telling me that my call is important to her,
waiting for hours or days or weeks
all for some fat bastard in a call-centre up north
with a poor command of the English language
to ask me questions about myself
that even I don’t know the answer to,
wanting to club the man at the end of line
to death with Vivaldi’s fucking cello,
even though I’m sure he’s a nice bloke
but I’m really losing my rag over here,
to then have to photocopy and post off evidence
to prove that I am who I say I am,
to then successfully change the code
from our anniversary to something
which seems memorable at the time,
which I write down on a post-it note
but then hide the post-it note
somewhere in my house
lest I get burgled
or a drone flies through the window
and steals my identity,
but then hide it so well
that I can never find it again,
this brilliant, new
not-so-memorable-but-kinda-memorable-code
which I then fail to remember
upon being asked for it,
which leads to my account being frozen
because the bank thinks I’ve been hacked
and they don’t believe I am who I say I am
because apparently they never received
the photocopy of my fucking passport in the fucking post
in the fucking first place, so:
no money for me,
must buy milk, bread and fags
with the shrapnel in my penny-jar.
Yeah, basically, I can’t be arsed.

And anyway,
I know that my birthday
is still your Netflix password
so yeah, fuck it.
We’re alright.

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