Check out my day

Last night at 6 I realised that my old and very full spreadsheet had errors in it. A new list appeared which would've been great for Vlookups but, as all of the text in Place Names varied ever so slightly from my Place Names (give or take a hyphen or a space bar) I was faced with 150 site codes to input manually.

As I commented to my colleague that at 6:30 I really didn't need my spreadsheet to go unstable he reminded me the servers were shut-down for maintenance, resulting in a very locked spreadsheet.

I went against my worst energy consumption genius and just turned off the screen and headed home thinking that at worst I would get a recovery file and at best I would get in today to find that the offices had burned down and it was all my fault (I'm bored of this project anyway).

I was going to have the day off work today as I felt lousy but TSK reminded me that my computer was still on. At 9am, amazingly, my spreadsheet was in tact and everything went downhill from there.

An extra £102.50 appeared on my credit card, taken by Flatlands Council. The bank and the Council could not tell me from whence said funds had been removed, leaving me suspicious that someone was masquerading with my almost-out-of-date new-card-stuck-in-the-mail credit card. What did I have to loose in cancelling the card that I have and the one that's stuck in the mail - just in case?

Over my sacred lunchbreak the phone rang. I looked at the screen which told me that calling is...
Brighton Taxi.

Why the hell am I being called by a taxi company in Brighton?

The nice lady at the Flatland council was on the line to say they had indeed found my payment and were searching their records trying to find out which department had taken the money.

Apparently the numbers for the Flatland Council and the Brighton Taxi company are almost one and the same except for a minor difference in area code. Who put fuzzy logic in mobile phones?

Brighton Taxi called back. "The Theatre".

Idiot of the day award goes to Trepid Explorer who has arranged a trip to the Theatre with her girlfriends from work to see The Full Monty. I knew that value looked familiar.

After another meeting pretending to be my colleague who is off work, not with manflu but the real full-blown chicflu (not to be confused with bird flu), the phone rings again.

The man asks for Mrs Fink. No Mrs Fink here. It's the hotpoint man. Come to repair the washing machine that refuses to empty. At my house. Mrs Fink's house. Pissy, forgot all about him.

At home, the new credit card is sitting on my mat. Pissflaps.

Am I at least safe now, in my home?