So my tea was interrupted this evening with a phone call from a man with a very strong Indian accent, called ‘Sam’, asking if he was speaking to “Mrs Brazier”
“Guess again my friend”
“There it is bud…”
“I am calling from Techno Claims Madam this evening”
BANG! Now he had my attention.
If there was some new potential money earner I could fill forms in for and wait for months to hear about, that might mean I could scrape some extra coinage in – then I’d be all over that little scheme.
Techno Claims you say?
My mind raced….
…could all those years of (not entirely wasted) Friday and Saturday nights wedged up against the bass bins upstairs of a now demolished bus depot in downtown Longton (Stoke on Trent) be about to pay off?
Those Fridays I’d poured myself into lycra cycling shorts and hypercolour T- shirt (don’t deny you didn’t have one or want one). Two-stepping around to the kind of music that made perfect sense for 48 hours over a long weekend in a skanky sweatbox of a death trap, fire hazard of a warehouse; yet lacked a certain je ne sais quoi when heard mid-week in the confines of your parents’ house.
Could this mis-spent youth of mine be about to have me hit the big time cash-wise?
Spinal shrinkage compensation scheme? Medical compo for all the burst blood vessels, chewed tongues, lost brain cells? This time next year me and the Bman could be on a yacht in the Maldives, laughing into our daiquiris.
“Yes Madam we’re dealing with the mis-selling of PPI this evening please”
The old bait & switch…
…thus, my hopes were dashed. 😦