Round And Round And Round We Go.
This week, I had an experience of the kind that this blog was created purely to relate. I was inundated with bureaucracy to such an extent that, had I not known better, I would have sworn that I had woken up in the dystopian red-tape world of “Brazil.”
It seemed so simple – I needed a sickness self-certification form, and I called in to the doctor to pick one up. The receptionist was helpful but, with the surgery in the middle of refurbishment, she quickly abandoned all hope of finding the necessary document and instead directed me to pick one up from any other surgery (though I don’t happen to know of any others in the vicinity offhand) or to get one from the Jobcentre.
The Jobcentre is round the corner from my flat, and so I duly headed there. After waiting in a queue for ten minutes, the cretin behind the desk informed me that they don’t keep this particular form and I would have to obtain it from a branch of any leading high-street pharmacy. Off I went.
Arriving in the chemist’s, and getting to the front of that queue after a short wait, I was told that they have never supplied this paperwork, and I should get one from the receptionist at my doctor’s surgery.
In the end, I decided it was quicker and easier to give up, rather than chase my tail further. You couldn’t make this shit up, and even if you could – I haven’t.