I cannot remember if I had an Irish Post Office savings account; I imagine I did. For sure my mother opened a British PO savings account for me on Eton High Street in 1967.
After a few years I opened a Bank of Ireland account in Drogheda and had an arrangement with Coutts branch in Eton to draw money in term-time. Until 1978 the Irish currency was fixed at parity with Sterling so there seemed no reason to open a British bank account. Of course, like holding an Irish passport, there were unforeseen consequences. When I was being enrolled in the British army in 1973 I found that my pay had to be put in a British bank account. They think of everything at Sandhurst and there was a man from Lloyds who opened an account for me in their Guards & Cavalry Branch.
In those days accounts had five digits but now my eight digit account number starts with three zeroes. I seldom need to use cheques so a book lasts for about eighteen months. A new one has just arrived and each cheque has a different nine character code starting with # followed by a random eight character sequence of jumbled letters and numbers. I wonder what that’s for? I called Lloyds but the chap I spoke to hadn’t a clue either.
Meanwhile I have a “Smart” electricity meter that I kept unplugged in a drawer until I thought you might like to see it.
It does not influence my consumption of electricity one iota except to make me think that less than £2.50 a day is pretty good value compared to my other outgoings.
Yesterday Hoof Hearted commented on how unattractive it is to see people photographing their food (and usually themselves) in restaurants, a sentiment with which I agree. (Exquisitively laid out bento boxes are an exception.) HH may also agree with GK Chesterton.
Of all modern phenomena, the most monstrous and ominous, the most manifestly rotting with disease, the most grimly prophetic of destruction, the most clearly and unmistakably inspired by evil spirits, the most instantly and awfully overshadowed by the wrath of heaven, the most near to madness and moral chaos, the most vivid with devilry and despair, is the practice of having to listen to loud music while eating a meal in a restaurant.
Unsurprisingly, I emphatically concur with Chesterton, but consider how much further things have deteriorated since he was writing. The problem is not limited to restaurants, as we are assaulted by ‘background’ (iniuriam descriptio) music everywhere. When I call my bank and am placed on hold I am subjected to Bach’s Air on a G string, and my electricity provider has chosen to blare out a short section of Mozart’s Eine kleine Nachtmusik (repetitiously).
Recently I had to have an MRI scan. In preparation for this a nurse went through numerous questions. Her final question seemed rather out of context: she enquired what type of music I listened to? I replied ‘classical’, still a little curious of her question, but assuming it was pleasant small talk. On entering the MRI scanner I was exposed to 45 minutes of The Finale of Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture. TEN TIMES.
What ever happened to quiet and calming spaces?
I’m put in mind of a comment made by the character Don Draper in TV’s ‘Mad Men’. He was in a bar where the music was, he felt, too loud.
“Could you keep it down? I’m trying to drink.”
Any chance of following Smart Money with a blog on Smart Telephones? Today’s news states the average Briton consults his or hers every 12.5 minutes. How do you compare and what do you use yours for?