As, f'rexample, I am spending most of today stewing over a stupid headbanging contest with my former insurers, MoreThan in the UK. (Please note, I did not sign up with a company called MoreThan, let alone MoreTh>n, which is what they prefer; I signed up with Sun Alliance and stayed put while the company was sold and absorbed and sold again and absorbed again.) In brief, my policy with them expired mere days before I left the country; I jubilated at this handy sense of timing, cancelled the direct debit and sent them an e-mail to say that I wouldn't be renewing. That seemed to be enough.
They replied that they don't accept cancellations by e-mail, and please would I call their call-centre.
No, of course I wouldn't. I felt I'd satisfied my obligations to them, in respect of an expired policy; they had the information they needed, and I owed them nothing further.
They're now sending letters threatening to tell credit agencies that I'm in default. I have sent them an e-mail, and will follow it up with a letter. A brief telephone conversation would have fixed this months ago; it would no doubt still be more effective; but I'm still not going to call them. Instead, I'll allow this to prey on my mind and sabotage my work all day. See what I mean about self-contempt?
In other considerations of the state of me, in between angsting that I'll never write anything again, what I'm actually intermittently writing is a piece about a man who departs his former life in a state of great angst about his own identity, whether he's trading life for art and will never write again. Hmm. I wonder where that came from?
[Here follow several incomplete and deleted paragraphs. Never mind.]
Some writers find that exile feeds their creativity; others need the tap-root of belonging. I've always asserted that I can write anywhere. Now would be the time to prove it.