TMFFTTM9

It was one of those things that my father failed to tell me about like the fact that you can never get away from the TV. I had been dragged kicking and scheming to the pub by drinking protagonist Dean, and had just had a pint of my favourite beer put in front of me (Timothy Taylor's Landlord from Keighley in Yorkshire, which has been my favourite pint long before Madonna even discovered where Yorkshire was).
I eyed it somewhat sceptically, it lay in the glass, moribund, a few bubbles of the kind normally associated with pond scum disturbed its otherwise featureless surface, they clustered together at the centre like musk oxen attacked by wolves. I nosed it, sadly the pungent reek of aldehyde failed to prick the back of my nostrils, there was no scent of pear and pineapple, the beer was perfectly sound, just flat and lifeless, a badger that had failed to cross the beer highway. Call me stupid, I felt duty bound to drink it.
As I ploughed through the listless beverage my mood followed the meniscus on its downward curve, I ended up vaguely depressed about the whole London bitter scene; "You pay us a fortune, we deliver the average.".
Dean departed, and I decided to cheer myself up by buying some prawns to bang into Tom Yam soup. I defy anyone to be depressed after Tom Yam soup, the amount of pain it causes releases enough endorphins to get an elephant doing cartwheels. At Sainsbury's I decided to get some cash, the machine sucked in my card and counted out the notes, I heard it. The little door did not open, the sheaf of crisp, warm banknotes was not pressed in my hand. The machine counted again, the little door did not open, the sheaf of crisp, warm banknotes was not pressed in my hand - again. The machine cogitated and then produced an apology, "I'm sorry I cannot give you the money at the moment. Do not worry it has not been taken from your account."
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I waited, the card did not appear, as I waited my dudgeon rose. Customer services scenting the aroma of not very good beer, glazed as I explained my predicament, then told me I'd had it, as if the Bank had ordered my card retained, that was it. I tried again, twice and once more with an overling. The upshot was that they could do nothing, I suggested they turned off the machine at least, they acquiesced, well, they said they would. I stalked off to the bus stop with two pounds forty three to my name, fifteen minutes later I was on the phone to the bank, cancelling the card whilst contemplating the credit card that could have been my soupy saviour.
The day after, I discovered my card, nestling, where it has always nestled, in my wallet. It is, of course, impotent, no matter how many slots I shove it in nothing will ever come out, what happened during that interval I do not know, did my flash of hubris obscure card retrieval, did a microwarp happen in the monetary space-time continuum, is some other card (apparently recognisable) gumming up the works of the apologetic machine?
My new card arrives next week.
Moral. While you may think supermarket staff are jumping to conclusions, they may have a point.

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