Dealing with the incompetence of others is wearing.
Time means nothing on forms, stillborn upon a desk, the signatures blacked in and replicated. The list of addresses weaving like rivers, through a postcode history, offering a deduction of nothing save for removal costs. Nine addresses in four and a half years, and I didn’t set fire to a single one of those homes, insurance scams don’t work without insurance.
I enjoy the paper trail, though what will be made of it by others? The Department Of Moving Things was unable to complete the transition from inky tip, to out-tray, to postal service grasp, to concrete tower in Swindon, to in-tray, to systems data files, to acknowledgement, completion and a new beginning. They stalled somewhere near the postbox. The dysfunction lasted for two months and may continue for another two months more. I am soon to be on probation, their probationary period must surely end soon. There is nothing human about their resources, and nothing worthy about the tasks they perform.
They leave me lounging, therefore.
So yesterday I lounged, raging, while she prepared a dish of fresh pasta, chopped basil and garlic, Spanish onions and Italian tomatoes, ricotta and spinach too. We ate in a hungry silence and I warmed slightly to the resumption, the taking to court of feelings, holding a conversation with peace and grace.
We ignored eighteen grand, and criminal records disclosure, and salary scales, the graduate expectation. When people ask what do you do? I’d rather they asked what do you not do?
We enjoyed television and hand-rolled cigarettes, the gentle tug of sleep, a walk through terraces and a summary. The giving of presents, the dud sacrificial bound in brown paper and genuine affection. I thought I knew and I did.
What you know, what you do not know.