Apocryphal advice to repel an attempted rapist is to feign mental illness or a learning difficulty. Don't know if this has validity (I'd like to think I'd use extreme violence, or deliberately evacuate my bowels and bladder, as first defenses), but FL and Steve @ IKEA have finally responded to my pleas of 'not being myself' for three years. Anyways, I got a precious yellow slip this morning as evidence that I've been refunded. Not that I'm off to Chichén Itzá or any such, but my mortgagers will be pleased. Should keep the bailiffs away for another couple of months until mortgage interest relief benefit kicks in.
This is the 300th post at this blog.
By coincidence, this blogsite was found and identified as mine yesterday. Nini's best friend is accompanying us on a ranger-led Braidburn activity today, and her googling mum found this place while seeking details. That was strange, although why it should feel so isn't clear since imaginary friends visit too.
Tomorrow I will pay a solicitor to notarise my name and identity (again) and I'll officially exist once more. As you'll recall, the big clearout of the Guilty bag revealed that both my birth certificate and a notarised change of name were missing, so I have to try to backtrack now. Although these aren't required for everyday purposes in Scotland (where identity is assumed by common practice), the authorities in other agencies need paperwork and a paper trail for recognition. So new papers must need be assembled to facilitate a belated application for British subject status. One of Blunkett's wizard wheezes, you'll recall, is that I will have to sit an exam on British culture. Forget that I've been overpaid, oversexed and over here for over 30 years. The exam is reputed to be a bitch, and since it took four tries to pass a driving test it could be some time before I qualify.