Chumpelstiltskin and the Curse of the Red Tape

Do you ever get the feeling that accomplishing basic tasks (such as--oh, I don't know--getting a phone or bank account) is sometimes FARRR more difficult than it need be? In fact, has attempting to accomplish these tasks--that are arguably necessary for life in even the middle lane, not to mention the fast lane--ever made you feel like a complete and utter chump?

No?

Then you musn't have ever attempted to paste together a life in Jolly Ol' England.

I have spent the last few days at the whim of a whole GAGGLE of admin monkeys. Each with an obnoxiously polite way of squawking their demands at me.

"Sorry, Ms. Christie, you'll have to come back with your passport"

"Ooooh, my regrets, Ms. Christie, we're going to need five copies of your grocery list from last week"

"Ms. Christie, I regret to inform you that we will be needing to conduct a variety of brain and body scans in order to ensure that you are not--in fact--a terrorist/android/Jane Fonda impersonator."

Unless you've been in this situation of complete and utter chumpdom, I'm not sure if you can fully appreciate the irritation of having to travel up and down a single flight of stairs between the "registration" and "records" floors in order to gather an elusive piece of photo ID that--much like the Loch Ness Monster-- is rumored to exist but, in fact, does not.

Yes, I am a chump.

But although I've been caught so perilously like a rubber duck at the amusement park in the chump-and-grind of Blighty life, an end does appear to be in sight (don't worry, I have now knocked every piece of wood in site). If all goes according to plan (which it hardly ever does) I should finish today with both a mobile AND a bank account...what a win for the good guys!

No doubt I will again find myself in chumpton, but for the time being, I have escaped the red plaugue. phew.