Losing the will to live

Simply writing these words brings back painful memories of a recent morning I'd much rather forget but can't.

I bungled

From time to time in Spain, whether you'd prefer to or not, the occasional brush with officialdom  is unavoidable and, by association, so too is the ordeal the experience quickly becomes. It was my turn the other day! Those awfully decent people at SERVEF, the Valencian employment agency, requested the pleasure of my company for a face to face conversation about a matter we'd been communicating over for weeks by mail. Because they're the kind of organisation it's best to keep onside, I readily agreed. My obsequious 'tactical' agreement was shortly to become the mother of all blunders.

A nice Moroccan man explained the system

The morning started off alright, like most of mine do, with coffee and toast in an agreeable cafeteria near to my house, thereafter it got steadily worse and my leisurely brekkie was quickly forgotten. Being somewhat new to Government agencies catering for the self employed and those with no work at all, I didn't think anything of the lengthy line of people all clutching various pieces of paper. Until I reached the SERVEF office that is, where, spookily the queue ended and a swarthy Moroccan bloke playfully suggested "I f*** off to the back of the line and wait like everyone else!"  "Sure thing" I meekly agreed., before retracing my steps for a good three furlongs.

Argos - a system that really caught on in Spain

When eventually I made it into the rather depressing surroundings, where, unknowingly I was about to spend the next four and a bit hours fighting the urge to top myself, I appeared to have been joined by most of the population of Elche. Spain being Spain, and it doesn't matter whether you're in a bank, the butchers, the Post Office or a mobile phone shop, the system is simple and it works a treat. You take a numbered ticket, park your arse and wait to be called or simply keep an eye on giant screens. A bit like Argos in the UK I suppose. Unfortunately, SERVEF seem to have a bit of an evil system featuring two different prefixes, 'A' and 'P', on the numbered tickets. I quickly established the sixteenth letter and not the first was what I needed and my speed on the uptake was rewarded with P042

Forty five minutes after I joined the heaving mass of unemployed Elche humanity, the green screen indicating which waiting client wouild be atttended to next had ticked along, at glacial speed, to P003. Meanwhile, the altogether more fortunate bearers of 'A' sequence tickets barely had time to spark up a conversation with the person next to them as their big red screen galloped up to number A044. With all that time on my hands, I'd long since given up on the game I play in the bank by trying to guess which cashier will serve me, in favour of sussing out the waiting punters. That proved to be altogether more interesting.

In an apparent act of defiant refusal to give in to his circumstances laced with a huge dollop of personal pride, one bloke seemed to have turned up in his best togs; matching Armani polo shirt and chino's combined with a pair of stylish brown loafers. His appearance was in stark contrast to the rest of the assembled customers.

The old girl tried to make friends

Posh boy clearly got lucky because within fifteen minutes he'd been and gone, unfortunately, the same couldn't be said for the talkative, big built lady that I initially thought worked there. It turned she was just a bit of a busybody with no life who absolutely loved the sound of her own voice! Sat next to the ticket machine, desperate to be somewhere else, I was a prime target for random strangers who couldn't figure out how to operate the thing, thankfully the old fish wife was soon on hand to put her ample nervous energy to one more good use. The problem with folk like her is that once you even offer a flicker of acknowledgement they're in like Flynn, behave like they've known you for years and really do persevere. In the end I scarpered for a coffee.

The moment my number came up

She was still there talking shit to anyone who would listen forty minutes later. On the upside, when I got back there were considerably fewer people, the 'P' screen had racked up 31 not out and every recipient of an 'A' ticket was being seen immediately. An hour or so earlier, cursing myself for not bringing my shaving kit, I was starting to worry I might even have to spend christmas, still five months away yet, in this godforesaken place. All of a sudden, with closing time rapidly approaching, (Spanish civil servants knock off at 1400), three additional staff miraculously became available and for the itinerants, me too, things began to look up. Then, about ten minutes before last orders, the unthinkable happened and P042 clicked into view, an event I witnessed with childlike excitement.

Less than ninety seconds later, the time it took an extremely helpful lady to photocopy my passport and green residency certificate, it was all over and, in something of a dazed state I emerged back into the daylight, blinking like a Chilean miner. I've still got that poxy ticket!!