2002-11-21 - 5:01 p.m.

The Post Office, or whatever expensively-researched corporate identity they�re assuming this week, are thinking of scrapping morning deliveries. This would hardly cause seismic shifts in the routine round our way, as our postie apparently drags himself out of his bed (fashioned, perhaps, from the bubble wrap from discreetly purloined Jiffy Bags) at the crack of noon, and saunters his way around his route at speeds more often associated with arthritic sloths.

Anyway, this afternoon saw the usual postal treats of offers of fabulous loans that would only cost me just under all of any future income plus monthly extraction of any bone marrow I�d produced, and begging letters from wickle mistweated kittens whose eyes have been digitally enhanced to look 83% per cent more pitiful, and who are meant to have written the letters themselves because it�s signed with a paw print, though this just makes me think that kittens with any literacy skills should know better than to get into these situations when they could surely hold down some kind of clerical position, or resign themselves to being of more practical use as raw material for an ailing glue industry. Alongside these were a letter from my mum detailing a disappointing time that some of their friends, previously unknown to me, had had in the South of France and, to save me having to work up to pretending to care about that, an important looking envelope from my bank.

I assumed it was something congratulatory as I�ve not been overdrawn for a whole three consecutive weeks (granted, two of those were spent in hospital and subsequently convalescing), but instead of recognition of my budgetary acumen, it was a stark warning about �irregularities� on my account. I immediately rifled through my wallet to check that no-one had taken my card to fund an illegal spending spree involving low-fat mayonnaise, novelty bird tables and balloon-sculpting clowns, but my card was where it always was, acting as cover for the condom with the Dec 2002 expiry date (must buy another one soon � you never know, 2003 could be the year).

I panned down the letter to see what specific transactions they were talking about, stopping only to clock the worrying use of the phrase �we�ve been monitoring your spending habits�, delivered in such a way that they expected some kind of gratitude on my part. I hoped it wasn�t anything embarrassing that had somehow been flagged, like my subscription renewal to �Chicks with Dicks Monthly� (the only publication that caters for my need to see orphaned but newly-hatched poultry being lovingly cared for by men named Richard�why, what did you THINK it was? Jesus�) or when I caved in last week and finally splurged on the collectors edition DVD of �Glitter�, just for the exclusive interview of Mariah saying how close the project was to her heart whilst being simultaneously sodomized by an eclectic collection of Tommy M*tola�s close business associates.

Thankfully, these had fallen through the cracks of their sophisticated invasion of privacy techniques, but just what HAD aroused their suspicion? It seems a couple of days ago at 7.30pm, I committed the subnormally outlandish act of buying 8 beers from a high street supermarket with a street value of �9.19 (I was splashing out on a known brand � maybe this threw them as I usually go for something less expensive, and I�m probably on their �cheap bastard� database?), brazenly followed up by the purchase of a tube ticket the next morning (�2.20) � but, and get this, from a part of London I didn�t usually buy them from. Da da DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH

I imagine the credit monkey envisioned something like this: After having audaciously relieved me of my credit card, the wanton mastermind celebrated his petty theft with the ostentatious purchase of luxurious continental lager. Overcome by criminal intoxication and high quality Belgian brewing techniques, he passes out, only to come to the next morning surrounded by empty cans and the rapidly-enclosing realisation of the horror he has committed. Propelled by guilt, and the pressing need for a change of underwear, he speeds to the nearest tube station and takes off into the murky netherworld of minor fraud.

Sadly, and I don�t know how I�m going to break it to them, it was just me staying with a friend who lives in a different part of London, sociably providing the drinks and making my merry way home the next morning. I�m sure the utter banality of it will prevent them from taking an interest in my financial affairs ever again, which will conveniently allow me to proceed with my importation of illegal Albanian TV weathermen and plans to expand my network of child maths prodigy tax return sweatshops unfettered by the prying eyes of those pesky high street banks.

I�ll never buy premium beer again, though.