Windfall.

The cashpoint asks me if I want to top-up the credit on my pre-pay pikey mobile fucking phone.

This is odd. I wanted some cash. Hence my frequenting said cashpoint.
But. Well, yes. I would actually. Thanks. This has saved me a visit to some News Agent Emporium where I will have to suffer old women stinking of piss purchasing unfeasible amounts of National Lottery scratch-cards and teenage girls sniggering at me.

Splendid.

I choose my network and tap in my mobile fucking phone number. Twice.

Thanks, says the screen. You’ll get a text in a minute confirming this marvellously futuristic transaction.

Ace.

Two hours later. No text.

Three hours later. No text. No credit.

Grrrr.

I phone the customer services people of my mobile fucking phone’s network provider. Who will not speak to me, as I have no credit.

After much keypad-tapping, I discover the mobile fucking phone has an overdraft of sorts. Which I cannot activate. Because I don’t have enough credit.

GRRRR.

I check the receipt-thing the cashpoint had given me.

If you’re reading this, I hope you appreciate the fact that I have managed to gift you with talk-time to the tune of ten English pounds.

I hope you applaud the stupidity of a man who typed in an incorrect phone number not once but twice, making the identical mistake each time (what are the odds?).

I hope you have some good mobile fucking phone conversations. I hope you have a good life, and that similar good things will continue to happen to you, despite the fact that you have yet to reply to the voicemails of an irate stranger insisting that you owe him ten pounds and what are you going to fucking do about it.