There are few things most humans can agree on.
From religion and politics to whether pineapple is an appropriate pizza topping (it’s not), we tend to descend into fisticuffs followed by full-scale wars at the first opportunity.
But there is one topic that seems to unite us in fervent agreement – our complete, overpowering hatred for all bureaucracy associated with government-provided services.
And so it was with pure hatred in my heart that I opened the doors of yet another municipal building, marvelled at the interior decor that was clearly undertaken by a colour-blind marsupial sometime in the late 1950s, and looked upon the unsmiling faces of the downtrodden government drones who’d all tried their best to match their outfits to the interior.
It’s those small, personal touches that make these visits so worthwhile.
After waiting in a queue that seemed to be adding more people to the front than the back (the fourth queue I’d tried before I found the right one) and with the last of my will to live long gone, I am face-to-face with Mildred, a woman who takes her job seriously, but her personal hygiene somewhat less so.
I’ve been through this routine before, so I hand over five lever-arch files filled with all the necessary documentation to open a municipal account, along with my bank statements, birth certificate, dream journal, a rather impressive illustration I’d made in Grade 2, and my car keys, for good measure.
Mildred, somehow more unsmiling than before, hands over a document to sign, which I do, promptly, before her overwhelming odour kills us both.
And I walk out, astounded at the relative ease with which this government-associated interaction went.
I am far too optimistic, and Mildred obviously sensed this weakness, because six weeks later I receive an SMS telling me my account is in arrears.
If there’s one position I can’t abide, it’s being in arrears, and so I call up Mildy for some fun-filled banter.
The discourse
‘Mildy, darling, how can I be in arrears when I have yet to receive a bill upfront?’
Mildy explained, with all her warmth of character, that I would have received a bill in the post.
‘The post?’ I query. ‘Why not an email?’
‘No, no, no, the local government does not offer that service.
‘What about an SMS then? You SMS to tell me I’m in arrears, but can we not take a step back and SMS the amount to my front first?’
‘ No, no, no, the local government does not think that is an effective way of working.
‘But, I haven’t received anything in the post!’
‘Well,’ replies dear Mildy, ‘you know what the post office is like.
‘Well, for F*** sakes, yes, I do. And clearly so do you. Which is why we’re both now stuck in my rears.’
Paper planes
Using the South African Post Office is about as effective as standing on a cliff, throwing the letter, and hoping it reaches the correct address.
That is why mail bombing, thankfully, has become a thing of the past.
By the time the bomb reaches the intended recipient, the feud is well dead and buried.
In fact, you’d probably end up bombing yourself when they accidentally send the package to the return address. I mean, who can resist opening up delivered mail?
I was going to ask Mildy if she and her tech-savvy local government actually realised what year it was. But, then again, they probably didn’t. I’m certain their ‘Hottest Government Employees of 2015’ calendar is still waiting at the post office. Along with my electricity bill.
