Signed, sealed, and delivered...but to where?

Years of work in the public sector has made me quite adept at filling in forms, if I do say so myself. But for the most part, I was filling in forms for other people all those times. Forms to appoint people; promote people; give people leave; transfer people - the list was endless. Far from being a confusing process, I understood this bureaucracy. I knew that at the end of its ride in the magic yellow internal envelope, the form would arrive at its destination (usually HR), be entered into the all-knowing computer system, and be considered resolved.

Here in Scotland I feel like I've been filling out forms for everything. But you can't just lodge forms in Scotland through a 'magic envelope' system, oh no no. You have to make appointments to meet the usually faceless bureaucrats. And THAT means putting on a respectable outfit (or a clevage-enhancing one, it all depends), a 500-megawatt smile, and assemble the most official looking proof of your existence and identity that you can.

So today I trudged down to get my National Insurance Number from a really lovely bureaucrat. In fact, I can't even call Mrs B that - she was too nice. We bonded over eyeball rolling at the severity of the hayfever season, and argued the benefits of contact lenses over glasses. But being bespectacled myself, I had no idea what to say about contacts. Given that I needed Mrs B to give me something, I figured it was prudent to simply agree with anything she said about them.

I trotted out all the pieces of correspondence I've ever received at my Scottish address. I even took along my Heritage Scotland membership. I figured Mrs B would consider it a sure sign that I am cultured and belong here. She didn't say as much, but I knew she was thinking it.

Secretly I knew there would be no problem getting my NI number. I had all the right ID, I'm not on the run from the authorities, and I've never collected bogus or legitimate benefits from any other nation in my life. And yet I still stammered and stuttered through the most basic of questions.

What is your occupation?

Public, er, pri-, er, Personal Assistant.

And how long have you been working as a PA here?

One, no wait, two weeks. Yep, just over two weeks.

Right. And do you like it?

I don't know. What's the right answer?

But after 20 minutes of this, the interview was over and the waiting game for my little insurance card begins. And guess what? Just before I left the office, I turned to see Mrs B slip copies of everything I presented went into a magic yellow envelope. Awwww.