The £20 note and the Queen

Got on the bus this morning with a £20 note. And no change. Not a good move.

The driver shook his head. “No change.”

“Arghhhh.. sorry, I haven’t got anything smaller.”
“No change,” he said, poking at his change drawer.

The guy behind me was jingling some coins.

“Can I get the change in town, when you’ve taken some cash?”
“Doubt it. I’ve got no change so far. The best I can do is a change receipt.”
“Ooh, Ok.. What do I do with that?”
“Take it to our depot in Outer Mongolia.” (teeny bit of embellishment there..)
“Isn’t there somewhere  a bit closer to do that?”
“Gloucester Green.”
“Oh, Ok. I’ll do that. But if you’ve got the change when I get off, can I cash it in with you?”
“No. I wouldn’t have any cash left if I did that.”
“Well you ain’t got any now..”


“Ok, I’ll take the receipt. Thanks.”

Fifteen minutes I looked up from Candy Crush. The bus had stopped, not at a bus stop.

Eh? I looked out the window. Where are we? Dunno, but everyone was piling off the bus. Speaking to the driver in turn.

“What’s going on?” I asked when it was my turn.

“Detour. High Street’s shut. The Queen’s coming.”



Strange times.

Bill Clinton, Posh Fish and the work do

Just like I nearly met Michelle Obama a few months ago, today I nearly met Bill Clinton. Small world and all that. We were at a work do in a local hotel when we noticed some security type geezules with ear pieces prowling the corridors. Very atmospheric, and slightly surreal. The hotel is based in an old prison.

“Ooer.. someone important here tonight then?” we chittered, moving towards the photographer to have our work pics taken.
“Hey, is Bill Clinton talking to you lot tonight then?” asked the photographer, conspiratorially.
“Eh, wha? Bill Cer-linton? Here?” We looked round.
“Yep, I saw this security guard earlier in town and asked to take his photo. Then I heard from the guys in the office that Bill Clinton walked passed Posh Fish in a white suit. I just saw the same security guard walk in a moment ago…”
“A white suit?”
“No, he ain’t talking to us.”

The action hotted up as an older man rushed past, dressed just like like a US reporter in the movies.

“Ah. He’s a journalist from the New Yorker.”
“Did you just recognise a journalist from the New Yorker?”
“No, he said ‘I’m from the New Yorker’ on his phone when he went passed.”

More security people gathered in the exercise yard. Looking very serious. Scanning the area. Was Big Bill about to arrive?

New Yorker guy rushed passed again.

“Excuse me, is something happening this evening?” I ventured.
“Happening? No idea?” he answered with a big, fake shrug, rushing off again.

Blacked out cars filled the front of the hotel. A posse of security guards, the size of minibuses, came in from the rain.

“A ‘V.I.P.’ is going to be filming out back”, one of them said. With a serious, Bill Clinton related, nod.

“Well I’d love to hang around and meet him”, I thought to myself. “But it’s Tom’s birthday and I’ve got meself some butterfly cakes to ice.”

Sleazyjet and the boarding pass

OK. Cutting a long story short here as my tales of travel woe are boring me now, I lost my boarding pass at Gatwick on Sunday afternoon.  A boarding pass the size of a house and bright orange. I unpacked my bag, retraced my steps but nothing. It was gone. Continue reading