I've got a Monday off. I need a new driving licence, for my (ahem) provisional runs out in a week. I'll go to the Taxation Office. Another of my cunning plans.
"Please take a ticket." Hmm, this is new since I was here two years ago. Ever the thrillseeker, I comply. I get number 694.
I look at the board - they're serving 594. Top marks for planning a cracking day off, Doyle. I nearly walk out. Ah, it might be worth a rant. Who says I don't suffer for my art?
I sit down with the form, fill it out. Wait.
605. Window 4. There's a sign on the wall warning people they'll be "escorted" off the premises for violent or abusive behaviour. It does exactly the opposite of what it's presumably supposed to do, namely reassure the public they are safe. I look around nervously. This is the kind of place people go postal and start shooting random strangers, after all.
There's a skinhead in a Man Utd shirt who looks like the result of a sexual tryst between Wayne Rooney and a baboon. He's staring malevolently around, evidently itching to test the security arrangements. I look away before he spots me.
611. Window 8. What are all these people doing here? Have they nothing better to do? Half of them are staring at me, presumably thinking exactly the same thing. I want to shout: "I'm doing research. What's your excuse?" But that would be petulant.
628. Window 7. The woman behind Window 7 has a quick glance around the room before hitting her button again.
629. Window 7. Jayckers, that's merciless, I think, suitably impressed. I'm wondering who the unfortunate is who's been shunted to the back of the queue in such a casual manner. I almost hope it's Man Utd man. The ensuing ruckus would pass some time at least. But he's nowhere to be seen.
647. Window 5. Elderly gent shuffles up reluctantly, like he's being called for a prostate examination. I cheer myself up with the knowledge I've that to look forward to.
654. Window 6. This is really tedious. I start trying to memorise the back of the form, just to keep busy.
662. Window 4. Woman bounds forward waving her ticket like she's just won a prize in the bingo. Bless her, she doesn't look like she gets out much. I'm a smug little toad, aren't I?
679. Window 8. I've just realised I desperately need to use the toilet. I start shuffling around in my seat. Automatically, a waterfall appears in my mind's eye. With that woman in a barrel going over the edge of it, thrilled with herself. Not so smug now, are ye? she shouts before disappearing into the whitewater.
687. Window 6. I'm really beginning to suffer. Do I risk a run for the jacks? My bladder says yes. My brain says no. I stay put.
692. Window 7. I can't go on. I'll go on.
693. Window 5. Come on, come on, come on . . .
694. Window 3. I'm out of the chair like a scalded greyhound. Where the hell is desk 3? Ah, round the corner, there it is.
Window 3 is closed. Shutter down, nobody home. I look around in panic. There's a bored-looking blonde woman behind Window 4, staring at me like I'm the stupidest human being alive. She motions for me to approach. I'm praying Rooney man isn't going to punch me through the glass for taking his spot.
I hand over the necessaries. My photographs look like mugshots of an emaciated Gulag survivor. I'm expecting a snigger, at least, if not the offer of a square meal. Nothing. Stamp, receipt, licence in a few weeks.
Thanks, says I, and off with me. Simple, almost enjoyable, the whole experience. I've even forgotten the waterfalls.
Two days later, I come home and there it is. My new licence. Two days. Efficiency personified. Credit where credit is due.
So it's hats off to the lovely people in the driving licence issuing office. (Not that I ever wear a hat, mind. Maybe I'll just rearrange my trousers in their honour or something.)
