Read your mail. (and why you should leave your bank before your husband)

Letters from the bank. What an annoyance. Now we're all online and paperless, all they're ever doing is updating terms. Leaflets destined for the recycling.

NO. Let me stop you there.

Changes in terms more than likely means that the change is bad news for the customer - for you.

Businesses rarely make changes that benefit the lowly consumer.

So this week, the change of terms from Natwest was telling me, in barely readable point size 7 font, that the interest rates on my savings account was going down. Now of course it didn't state that explicitly - it provided a table of figures for me to decipher under the heading, 'Our rates are changing.' Sneaky.

Magnifying glass may be required

Now, I'm sure you'll have noticed that savings rates aren't too hot at the minute, so my rate can't really cope with taking a hit. And the hit is a whole percentage. So now they'll pay me just over a percentage to loan out my money. Charmed I am not.

But Natwest, unluckily for you, I read your change of terms. And do you know what I'm going to do? I'm going to move my savings account to a different bank who'll pay me more.

But of course most of us just can't be arsed.

The internet confirms how loyal we are to our banks. 26 years is the average length of time we'll stick with our bank. Now considering the average marriage is 11 years this is a very worrying statistic indeed.

So if your bank has changed your terms for the worse, for goodness sake, leave. Move your money. Every percentage makes a difference.

Don't stay with a bank longer than you'd stay with your spouse. That really is just silly.

A beginners Guide to Life by the Sea

One month into seaside living and I'm really getting a taste for the sea-air. In fact today, I saw dolphins playing off the coast. As they say in Scotland, "cannae complain lass." And complain I will not.

In summary, the last month has gone something like the following:

Bloody tourists.
Colleague: "Can you believe at the weekend I saw someone with their top off on the beach? In February? Bloody Tourists."

Me: ( internally.) Best not mention that I was there in my shorts. 

Don't anger the sea.
When it's windy by the coast, you really do notice.

Don't be deceived.
Sunshine on a February day will not a warm sea make*

*Surfing attempt no1 was called off after 15 minutes, when, upon submersion in the icy water of the Atlantic, neither the Boyfriend nor I could remember our own name.

Room with a view
Who knew offices could have views? Naturally, it's impossible to concentrate on any work at all.

A back-end issue
There are downsides to sea-side living.

Looking back
When you miss the city you left and your friends, you will feel momentarily better when you hear it's snowing up there.

Council tax and bra burning

The council have annoyed, nay - riled, me. Yes, the tax is extortionate and okay, sometimes they leave the bins un-emptied, but that’s not it. They've reminded me that it’s 2013 and women are not equal to men.

In my home, I deal with the bills. I set up the accounts, organise the direct debits and pay the blasted things. So why, dear reader, will the council only write to The Boyfriend?

I call them up.

“Hi, I’d like to update the details you have on my account.”

“Okay.”

“I think you just have my partner’s details.”

Checks.

“Oh no, you’re down too.”

“Oh right, well could you possibly use my name on the correspondence, just because I sort the bills?"

“Oh I’m sorry it’ll just go to him by default.”

“Okay. Well could you override the default and send the bills to me please?”

“We have you on record.”

“Yes, but the letters are going to him, and it would be helpful if they were addressed to me.”

“Sorry, I can’t change that.”

I asked if he thought this wasn’t utterly ridiculous. He thought I was a raving lunatic.

“Your bills are going to the right address though aren’t they?” he added, as if this was the point.

And so it is that everyday sexism continues.

Now, don’t get me wrong,  thanks to the efforts of those who have gone before us, women and men in Britain have equal voting rights, freedom of speech, property rights, access to education and health care equality. Super news indeed. But are men and women equal? Are they heck.

Men outnumber women four to one in parliament. How many women lead powerful countries? It’s a lonely and exclusive group. Just 13% of FTSE 100 corporate board members are female. And British women are paid 83p for every pound our male counterparts earn.

And so it is that I am a feminist in 2013. Feminism is not about hating men or bra-burning, it’s about equality. 

Which given that I can’t even get the council to send me (helpless woman am I) the bill, is clearly something that we all still need.

Lessons from a house move

Moving, as people will cheerfully tell you, is only slightly less stressful than divorce or death. I have come out the other side. Here is my survival guide.


1. Do not develop a horrendous chest infection the day before relocating 600 miles. It will make the whole thing rather more challenging.

2. Before arriving at the Van Hire company, do check that your license photocard is in date. Turns out, they expire.

3. Accept from the beginning that you will not leave sufficient time to pack and will, at the final hour, be forced to throw any old crap in boxes at speed.

4. Cleaning your house will take much longer than expected. You will find dirt that you didn't know existed. Use the clothes you just cannot face packing to clean it up.

5. Do not forget that you have to clean the fridge. You will be repulsed by the horrors within.

6.  Do not try and reverse a long wheel base van. It's amazing how one relies on the view out of that back window.

7. Enlist the help of family members, but do not inform them of how long their train journey back home will take. There is a chance they will retract the offer of assistance.

8. There is a reason why you are advised to label your boxes. 

9. If your bedbase snaps en route, duct tape will prove surprisingly effective at holding it together.

10. When all you own is finally boxed and packed precariously in the back of van, you will have an uncharacteristic moment of melancholy. And then you will be excited about what is next to come.

 Goodbye Edinburgh, it's been a blast.

On relocation

Me: You know how we like going on holiday to Cornwall?

The Boyfriend: Yeah.

Me: And you know how we always say that we should live there one day, what with the sun and beaches?

The Boyfriend: Yeah.

Me: Well how about one day being now?

Short pause.

The Boyfriend: Alright then.

------

And so it came to pass that we moved to St Ives. 

What's a bit of mould between friends?

As the move south is just one month away, it was about time I found somewhere to live. This was not, I might add, like flat hunting in Edinburgh, which is jam-packed full of the blasted things.  No, St Ives, it transpires, is a baron wasteland of habitable rental properties.

There were times when living in a caravan was looking like an extremely appealing option.

Choosing a house – sorry, flat, sorry, box – to rent is not fun, not at all.

I do not care if the bathroom suite is avocado, but I do care if damp covers an entire wall. 'I’ve never seen it like this before' insisted the estate agent. And I will not be seeing it again – period.

It is genuinely not considered good etiquette to comment on the cleanliness in front of the people who live there. 'I don’t think this house has ever been cleaned,' I muttered under my breath at the sight of a number of dead insects on the kitchen lino.

‘Don’t mind the wife - she’s just in bed with the norovirus – go on in,’  said an enthusiastic tenant. I breathed in and popped my head round the door. Then made a mad dash to the exit and bathed in antibacterial hand-wash.

The final straw was viewing a flat in a converted attic. The owners couldn't find the keys to the door, so I had to go up through the entrance in their home. As I entered the flat the owner laughed, 'Don’t worry, once you live here that door will be always be locked.'

I was about to move into a Bronte novel.

So one thing is certain, when you finally find somewhere that is mould free, does not have a carpeted bathroom or things growing on the lino, you will not remember anything about it – like how big the lounge is, or whether you can fit a table in the kitchen.  You will simply be glad that you will not be living in Mr Rochester’s attic.

Out with the old: A quick round up of 2012

So, another year has bitten the dust. Farewell 2012. 2012, jees. I know that I am getting on because I’ve started using phrases such as ‘ hasn't this year gone fast?’ and, ‘there is no way that they are old enough to be in a pub.’

So what have I achieved in 2012, exactly? Have my achievements outpaced my failures? 

Achievements. Well, this might be tenuous but I bought my first lip pencil. The woman at the Mac counter didn’t seem to comprehend how I had made it through 29 years without one. Unfortunately, despite her insistence, my life has not been transformed with the addition.

Progress on the uke has been slow and steady. A maestro I am not, but I do at least know more than four chords. And in a surprising twist of fate, saving has come on in leaps and bounds. Who knew frugal living could be so enjoyable?

And failures? Well, my running efforts took a big fat nose dive when I injured my foot on the first outing. And I didn’t re-read the works of Austen after all. Neither did I truly learn how to knit (drop how many?) nor finish the bestseller.  

But I’ve got a feeling 2013 is going to be a good ‘un. I’m moving to a new part of the UK –  so far away from Edinburgh that it might as well be abroad. There are beaches there -  so perhaps this means I can now pursue my Olympic inspired dream to become a beach volley-ball superstar? Yes, that seems entirely feasible.

And hey, maybe I’ll even have some outdoor space to get the laundry dry in.

Oh, we can but dream. 

Happy New Year to y'all.