If the inverse of Parkinson’s Law is also true, that work contracts to something tiny when you are in a terrible rush, then tonight’s diary entry should become very small indeed.
I did not get time to write anything before I went to work, and it turned out that the nightclub was open tonight, it being the salubrious day of the year known as Black Eye Friday. Hence it is now four in the morning and I want to go to bed.
I want to go to bed even more because I have been up since five.
This was not because of any urgent appointments, or even for a semi-mystical wish to participate in the dawn after the longest night. It was because four days of complete excess resulted in me waking up with indigestion and general elderly discomfort, after which I couldn’t get back to sleep.
By seven I gave up trying, left Mark snoring, where, incidentally, he remained until half past ten, and got up to get on with the ironing.
The other consequence of our week’s adventures has been a jolly lot of ironing, and I haven’t finished yet. I will have to finish it off tomorrow, in between wrapping Christmas presents, cooking dinner for the dozen or so of us who will be assembling here on Christmas Eve, and getting ready for work.
Really I ought to set an alarm and get up early to do it, because there is a lot of doing which is as yet still undone, and not very much day.
I don’t think I will bother, though.
In between ironing, the tiresome adventure of the day has been the council. I am too wearied by their petty belligerences even to tell you about them, but suffice to say that somebody – they think me and I am entirely certain it was them – has lost a page from one of our forms, which had to be re-completed not by me but by our doctor. He is a busy sort of fellow and was not at all impressed by a request to take half an hour out of his day and refill the council’s back-watching exercise.
As well as that they have refused to accept our Criminal Record checks. We got these in April, indeed, we had to complete that particular wedge of paperwork twice because the council messed up their end. They apologised profusely for the exceedingly tiresome inconvenience, but we just got on with it and thought not much more about it.
Regrettably, for some arcane reason I can’t even begin to fathom, the government has recorded the inaccurate check and not the accurate one. This means that despite being able to see the accurate one with their very own eyes, the council don’t believe in it. They have explained that they do not keep records of their own in case they are cyber-hacked by wicked cyber-hackers who wish to know our address, dates of birth and whether or not we suffer from diabetes, a neurological condition, poor eyesight or a heart condition, dear doctor, please tick the appropriate box and explain your reasoning, this is a ten mark question.
Only the government is allowed to keep records. This is because they have got better lawyers and if you sue them for rubbish cyber-security you will certainly lose. The council does not record anything at all, not even on bits of paper stuck to notice boards. You can never be too careful, you know.
This meant that today they could not count the correct criminal record check, which we were waving under their noses, as being a real one, despite the fact that their mistakes led to the errors in the first place. Today they did not apologise for the inconvenience, even though it was their fault. Today they charged us a hundred and eight quid and told us we had to fill all the paperwork in again.
We can do nothing about this. They hold all the cards. They can be as incompetent, threatening and useless as they like, and we have simply got to accept it. They know this.
Obviously I know about complaining to the ombudsman. I know this from all of the other times I have complained. The ombudsman notes your complaint but presumably isn’t allowed to keep a copy of it in case it is cyber-hacked, puts it in the dustbin and forgets it instantly.
We gave the council a cheque for the hundred and eight pounds.
Much good that will do them.
I am going to bed.
