"You'd swear," she fumed to Gramsci, "that they didn't want to get paid. The line was so flakey it dropped every few minutes, and when you redialed, the connection speed was about 60% of what you'd last gotten. In the end, I was probably connecting at half a bit per second, with the wind behind me, and substantially less when it changed."
Gramsci sympathised. Everytime it rained, his connection with reality was impaired, too. Mainly because of all the hallucinogenic insects he ate to stay warm and bright in amongst the grey.
"And now..." muttered the Cow, "the pain refuses to recede. After getting bounced repeatedly because my login details are incorrect, I reset my password, and *still* can't get in. Phoning the bank's helpline is a nightmare - how many hours of distorted George Michael can you sit through before you want to commit mass homicide? And then..." the Cow spluttered enraged, "you go to their feedback form, on the web - once you find it, well-hidden as it is - to tell them that every conceivable aspect of their service sucks... and find that that doesn't work, either! Text won't enter, menus won't drop down, buttons press in vain.."
Gramsci shook his head in sympathy. Mondays weren't kind.
The Cow shifted awkwardly. "Then it occured to me," she muttered, "that Firefox might be updating again for a reason. Two updates in two days generally means something. So I tried Safari instead, and that worked."
"So you managed to pay your bills then?" asked Gramsci.
"Gmf!" snorted the Cow. "Those can wait! I just transferred some money to a card whose code I remember so I can draw money for a caffeine shot!"
"Perhaps," ventured Gramsci, "life would be simpler if they cut out the middleman? Dispensed with banks, and paid the money directly to Amazon, or some such, and you could just order the goods direct from there?"
The Cow blanched. The thought of having to pay excise duty on every cup of coffee was horrifying. She wondered if coffee beans would grown in a pot in her office?