Friday, 25 March 2016

Kafka

I was, once again, in one of his novels this morning.
I'm not complaining (much) we are very lucky to have a social security system in France, but I'm sure even me and one of our dogs could devise something that might work more efficiently.

This is a photo of the rubber plant that 'lives' in that office. Every time I go there clutching my 'dossier' of carefully gleaned bits of paper, it looks a little more closer to dying of dust and boredom. It is somehow representative of the whole air of the place; a sort of worn-down, acceptance and non comprehension.

                                                    

On my last visit I was assured that everything had been well and truly sorted out and that we would receive in the post, shortly (was actually three weeks) our notification  that everything had been well and truly been sorted out.
It arrived and it wasn't, so I took the letter down early this morning, and, after standing for a very long time in a queue, got to see (thank the Lord) the friendly one of the two women.
She read the letter and sighed deeply. She did explain what the letter meant, but I had become one with the rubber plant - lost, accepting whatever was going to happen which would no doubt involve another dossier and a trees worth of paper.
As she smiled and handed me other new bits of paper to keep until the real ones turn up, I asked her if she knew what was going on within the social security system. I suppose I had expected a pursing of the lips and a trite au revoir, Madame, but she said: 'No, I don't. It is very complicated'.
Mm.

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