So, I’ve been back in the UK for three weeks. What have I been up to? Where has the stream of book reviews, overly-personal physical/mental health insights and pictures of my face gone? Well, here’s a little run-down:
1. I’ve been labouring through the books on the reading list for my forthcoming MA, none of which I am going to blog about. For now.
2. I’ve been trying to find a job, I’ve been having interviews and trial shifts in many bars, and (more recently) I have been working for MONEY in a cocktail bar. Sweet, sweet dinero.
3. I have been in constant contact with Tunis Air about my lost luggage, which was finally returned.**
4. Hair cut.
5. Not writing.
6. Not rapping.
7. Losing access to my money through a genuine inability to replicate my non-existent “signature”.
Which brings me to the main point of this blog:
Signatures and their lack of a place in the modern world.
I do not have a “signature”. I do not possess the physical, visual and/or cognitive skills necessary to make one. I cannot do it. I have tried, over and over again, since I was a boy. I have bad handwriting, poor control generally of all my extremities, I CANNOT do it. However, the year is 2013, this SHOULD NOT be a problem. I do not CARE about security, I do not CARE about identity, whatever. I care about ease of personal banking and the movement towards a paperless society. Signatures, signing things, is messy, archaic, dirty and BAD FOR THE ENVIRONMENT. For it to be demanded that I replicate a scrawled version of my name I casually made several years ago to gain access to money STORED IN MY NAME has filled with glum, angry, pissed off RAGE.
However, this rage has gone off the boil somewhat after my university-to-be informed me that I have five weeks without debt-collecting pressure in which to “sort myself out”***. Nice!****
To conclude: I feel it is an embarrassment and a shambles that there still exist financial institutions that force people to feel like they have a debilitating physical disability that needs to be medically certified in order to prevent the shame, inconvenience and embarrassment of failing to complete a difficult, rare, antiquated, nominally redundant task deemed easy only by an outdated, anti-cerebral system. Test my general knowledge, bank, ask me my secrets. Those I can and will give, freely. But ask me to draw with a pen and I am afraid I cannot.
Having to sign something to withdraw money from a savings account is more backwards and less pleasant than shitting outside. Take my PIN, take my DOB, take my blood type,****** but please, please, please don’t ask me to write my name in a florid way twice EXACTLY THE SAME. I am not Picasso and nor am I am asso. I’m bad at drawing. Please do not use this to penalise me.
*Well, not sobriety per se, sobriety from the emotion-numbing laissez-faire relaxation-making stress-free fluoxetine dream that the seven months prior to mid-August were. I had a blast.
**Meaning that I now possess a little under a gram of prozac that I intend not to take. I can’t work out if I should try to illegally sell it (lots of the capsules have fallen out of their foil), or hide it away to form the beginnings of a potential “suicide stash”. I’ve already looked this up, and the fatal dosage the internet prescribes is sadly at least twice what I have. LET THE COLLECTING BEGIN!!!
***Aside: Is that still a slang term for masturbation?
****I’ve also been watching many episodes of the Fist of Fun boxset I got for my birthday.
*****That’s a bluff. I do not know my blood type.