IT All went horribly wrong when I tried on my wife's shoes. Oh. Sorry. You misinterpreted me. It being Liz's birthday on the day after I return to the UK I had agreed to buy her a pair of Converse trainers and, as her feet were about the same size as mine, I tried a pair on to make sure I had the American sizes right. So no scandalous exhibition of Cross Dressing from me. No sir. Anyway, finding the perfect pair I took them to the counter, only to find that my wallet, which was in the very shallow pocket of a pair of shorts I was wearing, had gone AWOL.
I searched everywhere with Withers and his other half, Nadine, turning out boxes of shoes onto the floor of the shop until those serving obviously thought it was some kind of British ritual, like those in Iraq who beat the Saddam statue with shoes to celebrate his downfall. This was no laughing matter, though, to be honest. It had all my credit and debit cards in them, plus $200 in cash, and without them I was lost in America, completely skint. Back at the hotel I proceeded to use what little credit I had on my American sim card to spend the next three hours contacting the bank and cancelling them all, while also trying to arrange an emergency cash payment. I kept getting that annoying automated service. You know, the one that says "please key in your account number". Even though you know no one is listening you still find yourself shouting: "I don't know it - that's the whole point! I'VE LOST MY CARDS!"
Finally, I am through to a human who wants to know everything including my inside leg measurements before proceeding to cancel anything. Eventually it's done, but I have to check with the credit card company to see if anyone has used the missing cards. Trouble is, I get caught in a loop and listen to inane music for a while before being returned to the exact same department I have already spoken to. Finally, I'm through and it's good news, but I still need cash. The Credit Card people try to patch me through to Mastercard, but it is another automated service seemingly on a different planet, the person on the other end of the line speaking swahili. I give up, kick a few pieces of furniture, shout at the wall, and go through the whole process again. When this time I get through to Visa the man sounds like he is trapped in a tin can, the line awful, and I have to spell out my name with my very poor version of Nato's Phonetic Alphabet. Unfortunately the bloke hasn't got a clue at what I'm saying and I have to spell out every word of my longish name, address, etc. B is for Bertie, P for Peter. Hardly Alpha, Victor, Tango but after about an hour - desperately hoping my SIM card Pay As You Go minutes don't run out - I have done it.
Then I am told I have to wait and Visa will contact me at some stage to tell me if my request has been successful. So, no money and it's the wedding meet-and-greet. I will have to throw myself on the mercy of my friends...
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