Sat at the bank for two hours today, setting up accounts, deleting joint accounts, reinvesting proceeds from the house sale. More than two hours; much of it airless.
Our accounts manager is a forty year old child. He's a man-child, gamer, fast on the keyboard. My ex needs to tell everyone that he used to work for that bank. Interesting. I already reached the point of being sick of my own stories, now I am sick of my ex's.
Seems the more we move our money around, the less of it we have. It's all paper to me anyway. None of it seems real. I do notice that I am calmer around money than I used to be. I have total faith that I can and will - and do - support my family in a lovely and spoiled manner. More than faith, I know. I feel it.
