So within the first few days of being in London, one of my roommates told a story of her friend who was abroad in London who got mugged at the ATM, or "cashpoint" as they call them here. I nodded and smiled and listened to her story about her friend who was probably just drunk and/or retarded to not know what was going on around her. Anywho, a couple hundred dollars went by in the next couple of weeks, and during those times I never feared for my life or the safety of my checking account. Until this one time...
One night my flatmates and I ventured off to our favorite little pub on our street, The Cock (yes, that's what it's called. and yes, I giggle like a schoolgirl every time I say it). The Fabes had been texting with Santa (see Lesson 24) and he invited her to come out with him. Being the gracious friend that I am, I offered to accompany her on this non-date in case he was a creep. However, my wallet was feeling quite thin, and seeing as I would be unable to work the streets for a couple extra quid before we went out, I decided the ATM would be my next-best option. We finished off our pints and headed for our closest Barclays, as not just any cashpoint would suffice lest I be charged tens of dollars in fees...no thanks. On our way there, The Fabes and I were discussing our defensive strategy at the ATM since it was getting quite dark at the time. Then it happened.
I slipped my card in, and just as I finished entering my PIN these two--to be as PC as possible--non-native Englishmen came up behind me and Fabes and started throwing newspapers at us. My protective instincts came in as I kept both hands planted on the sides of the ATM--elbows out and ready to kick, blocking any access to the keys and thus my precious savings as The Fabes boxed them out and we both screamed NO! NO! NO!!!!!
I think they learned their lesson. No one, and I mean NO ONE gets between a jew and her money. No one.
Lesson 53: Pizza should not crumble
Once we recovered from our ordeal and made our way to meet up with Santa and his little helpers we ended up having a pretty fun night. Luckily for me, the little helpers must have still been in the Christmas spirit, as I didn't end up spending any of my money on drinks (and I wasn't even dressed that sluttily!). 2 glasses of white, 1 glass of red, 3 vodka tonics and a pint of Guiness later, I decided that the beer goggles just weren't strong enough to make the guy who had been hitting on me for the past 45 minutes look attractive, and determined it was time to bail. I grabbed The Fabes who had already ditched Santa to dance with the 50 year old owner of the bar and we bolted. On our way to the main drag to find a cab, we walked past a stand with none other than the American go-to late night food...pizza. I was finally satisfied that I had almost sacrificed my life at the ATM earlier in the night just so I was able to purchase none other than the fine delicacy of a slice of pepperoni pizza. I handed the strangely hairy man my money, and probably would have cut off my left foot had he asked me for it. I grabbed the slice out of his hands and went to town on it like I was one of those starved Ethiopian children in those commercials with the flies landing on its cheek and the protruding stomach. I folded it in half as any New Yorker would, only for it to completely crumble and fall apart. Just as I finished scraping the last bit of cheese and tomato sauce off of my shirt and into my mouth, I noticed Santa's unattractive helper coming towards me. I grabbed The Fabes and hailed a cab and we were out of there. We made it back to my flat just in time for me to make it to the bathroom. I blame the pizza. It's just not natural for a pizza-like substance to crumble in that fashion. Maybe cornbread or some other crumbly-like bready food...but not pizza. It was offensive. And I don't appreciate it.
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