Let me kiss you, Mr Bureaucrat

Last week ended rather abruptly for me, with a quick trip to the supermarket. I don't know why I think these trips are going to go smoothly, because they never do.

Invariably I am left a shuddering and wimpering mess in the frozen food section, while scores of children and old people jostle past me for discounted cod fillets and 2 for 1 mini-pizzas. And all of this after a day at the office, 10 minutes before my bus (the last bus of the day) is due to take off from its stop. So it's a mad rush through the shop, to the check-out, to marvel at just how slow a 16 year old boy can move. I bet he can operate Playstation like a demon, but can he bleep my shopping?! The pensioner I knocked over in the cereal aisle could move faster than he can.

Why is it that you can be doing so well to get through the store, that you end up choosing the slowest cash register lane EVER. Or just when you get to the front, the register roll runs out, or there are no more 20p pieces bla bla? It's a killer.

If you've been reading these posts over the last few weeks, you know I have had no luck mastering the Scottish bureaucracy. Getting myself registered, working, paid etc has proven to be a big hassle and my mental fortitude is fast running out. So imagine my elation when Saturday's postman brought me a little brown envelope containing (wait for it) my NATIONAL INSURANCE NUMBER woohoo yay way to go! My little plastic insurance card is still being laminated in some bureaucratic black hole in south-western Wales or somewhere, but at least I've got my number. AND inside of the 12-week timeline the lady gave me! This is the public service alive and well in Scotland, people. Marvel if you will, but for God's sake don't get used to it.

So do you know what this means, now that I am a card-carrying (almost) nationally-insured person? It means I can pay taxes to the wonderful Government of this fabulous nation, this is so great! Yes, I've gone nuts. Thank you for not pointing.