So what do you do, as was the case yesterday, when the bank that has been looking after your modest rainy day savings suddenly freezes the account - this is the money you have put by in case the roof blows off or the boiler dies one cold day in December or even both at once - and reports indicate that your cash, your security, your thin financial cushion, has disappeared down a large black hole somewhere in Reykjavik and may not be seen again?
The first reaction was victim guilt. I had obviously done something wrong, had lusted after the relatively high interest rates dangled in front of me and had committed an unforgiveable error of judgement.
Then anger. Then clodding fear.
Evening. I phoned my sister, who reminded me that I have a roof over my head and food in the cupboard. She also made me laugh.
Today I picked up the camera and deliberately decided for the sake of sanity to pay attention to the moment as I walked to work. Any serenity I could hope to find during the coming twenty-four hours would be as a result of living second by second.
On a morning like this, surprisingly easy.
At work I made coffee for my colleagues and sat down at the desk. The phone rang. The boss calling from home. She had just heard on the radio that The Chancellor of the Exchequer is going to look after me and my 300,000 or so compatriots in the same boat. All this on the same day that my fellow taxpayers and I apparently took ownership of every bank in the country. Crazy.
Yes. I am relieved. Very. Aware of my personal good fortune and embarrassed to be in this situation. Goodness knows what is happening to our world, economically and politically, right now but hopefully it might be at least a partial cleaning out of some pretty filthy Augean stables and not simply total madness.
Me, I am a bit more awake than I was last Monday.