Day 32

5.01: “Insufficient funds,” winked the cash machine in its green mechanical script.

Come to think of it, it never said who – they don’t use anything so crass as a pronoun – but we both knew it was talking about me.

I’m positively stagnant with banknotes; you, however, have insufficient funds. Do not under any circumstances insult me by sticking that useless bit of plastic into my slot again. I’ve got better things to do.”

I pushed the thing into the little gap for another go.

“For christ’s sake, you insufferable, impoverished humanoid jackass. Have you no shame?”

It retched and spat the card back out at me  a couple of times before I rammed it finally home, muttering something about finding one of the infernal robot’s other orifices next time. Brute force and arrogance will win the day here.

“Insufficient funds. Don’t touch what you can’t afford buster.”

So that was it. From now on, I’ll be living on my wits. It’s quite exciting.

When I lived in Liverpool, there used to be a chap who spun an extra quid here and there by going round pub tables and writing poems on demand for the bibbing chattering masses. That’s could be an option, though I doubt it’s going to see me through to Christmas.

Or I could sell an organ: I have three kidneys, after all. Only one’s in good working condition, and I tend to make rather heavy use of it, but surely I could fence the others off to someone who doesn’t have any. They’re better than nothing, although, as technically factory seconds, perhaps not quite the cash cow I’m after.

I’d perhaps better combine the two. Which seems to mean my new business plan is touring renal wards writing poems on demand for their inmates and, perhaps, letting them have a go on my working kidney while they wait. There’d need to be a few terms and conditions: the first rule of the pay-per-poem kidney borrowing club is, “No Epics.”

I’ll ring the bank manager as soon as he opens, see if he can’t release a little start-up capital.

6.48: My daily word count seems to grow in inverse proportion to my bank balance. The writing time’s as good as a gnat’s sneeze at the moment; I scarecely notice it shooting by. But this may not be the good news its seems. The coffers are swollen, but I don’t yet know with what currency. Could be I think I’m trading gold bullion, and it turns out to be nothing but unmatched buttons and sticky fluff-coated gobstoppers.

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~ by David Thorley on December 9, 2009.

One Response to “Day 32”

  1. Another black mark today?

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