I’ve just spent a good hour trying to sort out an activity track day given to my son in the form of a voucher. Driving a fast car on a fast racetrack without a licence seems like a specious package. The voucher came in at £44, which allowed for a certain amount off I would have thought, but after squinting at the receipt for the voucher number, having to take a photo of the voucher and then enlarging the numbers so as I can see the damn things is a symptom of getting old, “my eyes are blind I cannot see etc…” This then coupled with another website, different from the first and then they both confided against me to make my life and the booking easier. contrary to that, the website told me it would deduct the voucher amount from the actual amount, which included insurance waivers and a lap with a professional who could show young son the racing line and where to brake and where to accelerate. Putting in the card details then led me to another place where I was assured the amount would be deducted, and having booked twice, failed to make the card work and left me with no other driving options, all the places taken up by spurious bookings made by a man of 52 years who only wanted to sort out a fun day out with his son. Instead sweat beaded on my forehead, my natural musk came forth and I’m left no choice at 10pm, but to wait until the morning and speak to some excitable petrol head who will no doubt ask me question after question on the nature of my interest in cars (of which I have none, save for the provision of a good stereo, a sunroof for my son and leather seats for my daughter, of which incidentally I have just the stereo in my present company car) Sometimes I wish the internet would just lay off and a present would consist of a parcel with something other than a series of code numbers and a series of digital hoops to jump through.

But then maybe it’s just my age and the shrinking ability to deal with anything other than 2 steps to Nirvana. People like Easyjet and Ryanair have got a lot to answer for; seats, baggage, position of seats, size of baggage, weight of baggage, weight of passenger, age of passenger at date of return flight, insurance should you not get to the airport in time, insurance for loss of baggage, insurance for loss of life and about £10 for a small can of tepid Stella. I fucking hate it all, as it taunts me from behind the screen of my laptop. And who knew, just to add insult to injury my son’s Rugby team what’s app group has just asked me to tell them which games on Sundays my son can not make, this after only asking me on Saturday to email  somebody to tell them which dates he can and can’t make. But now we have a new app to fill in those dates, once again! 

I’m off to bed to read a book about the cantankerousness of ridiculousness of cantankery, of which I am fast becoming a reluctant advocate of.