Insufficient Funds hole in the wall strikes back

It is with some degree of acceptance, I expect the magic hole-in-the-wall machine to throw out cash when needed. However, somewhere between the hole-in-the-wall and my bank balance the lolly, spandulars, readies, bread, notes, dosh, green stuff had lost it's way, vamoos, gone, like the legendary Bermuda Triangle where planes disappear. In short the money has vacated the premises. I am a pauper. Thrown onto the slag heap of life. Children with pocket money have more liquidity than me. I am in a Northern Rock situation. And what a feeling of loss it is as well. I reach into my trouser pockets and search for change. A few pound coins. Where is the magic money growing tree which should be at the bottom of my garden? Some one has gone and half-inched it (pinched it). Just my luck.

I can't recal a time in my life where the machine has not be obedient. Except when it has it's little quirks, or mood swings and decides not to work. The kind of petulance a child occaisionally shows. Then I'd just go to another more ameniable hole-in-the-wall, which so politely open it's mouth to regurgitate the paper goods I need. But this time it's different. The screen flashed up with those hated words "Insufficient funds" words I have not encountered. Words I thought would not happen to me. But I have been treating the giver-of-happiness perhaps a little to opulently, a little beyond my means. Taking advantage of it. Assuming it would always be there for me. Unfortunately, I made a mistake. In what I thought was an error, I tried another machine and it to pounded down the words like a mallet over my head, "insufficient funds."

Unless the alternative is true. Which I do not want to think about. If it is, then, I am going to be busy tomorrow. Because my account has been hacked. It's happened once before. But this time it is an enigma. Nope, I don't think this is the case. I'm sure I've spent more than I have in the machine.

Or I could get a new job, earn more money, sell my body to science but only as long as I can loan it while a breath still passes my lips. I think I will just run away from the human race, find a desert island. Live of coconuts. Eat fish. Lay in the sun. Grow a beard and go ever so slowly mad. Mad I say, mad.