Paperwork: Part 2

A new day, a new waiting room. The ticket machine’s out of action, so the order of the day is to fight for numbered pink slips like they were winning raffle tickets. After a small fracas, I'm eventually seen by a friendly Mother Teresa figure who morphs into Jean-Claude van Damme when I reach her desk. She practically karate chops me out of the building when she discovers my lack of Carte Vitale is down to pure disorganisation. She then takes immense pleasure in informing me that the necessary document required for my interview at Pole Emploi may or may not be ready in time and I thank her for her help, before scurrying away like a mouse in a cornfield.

Finally Judgement day arrives, aka the day I discover whether I’ll ascend into welfare heaven. The first thing is for a quick pit stop at Assurance Maladie to pick up proof of existence, which I obtain without a hitch, although looking at my watch tells me I’m going to be late for the boys at the Pole Emploi...

A short while later...

I’m there! It’s just off Place Gambetta, a full 15-minute sprint from the social security office but it’s ok because they’ll understand from all the sweating that I was sorting out necessary paperwork to make their job easier. Won’t they?

“I’m sorry sir, you’re 20 minutes late. You’ll have to make another appointment.”

QUOI?

This baldy must be kidding me. Not only have I spent the last two days trapped in a sickening waiting room with Kill Bill and Goebbels just to get a sodding piece of A4, I’ve also deliberately missed my grandfather’s wake just to be here on time. As a bead of perspiration drops off the end of my nose and onto his appointment sheet, I’m adamant I’ll be seen today. I quickly scour around to see if others will join my one-man revolution.

A massive Arab guy who I nickname Tupac seems like he wants to join my side, having also just missed his appointment. We proceed to re-enact De la Croix’s Liberty Leading the People, using nothing but cardboard cutouts of young French businessmen punching the air. Eventually the baldy man tires of us, and agrees to accommodate us in his next available slots (ooh matron!).

Thanking Tupac for his work, we agree to reunite to combat world evil just as soon as our employment prospects have picked up. Alas, I mount the steps of the Pole Emploi. I’m ready to be welcomed into the brotherhood of benefits. It’s like the end of a long, hard, pilgrimage, albeit with one important difference. Unlike the Muslims in Mecca, or the Jews in Jerusalem, I can honestly say that I never want to come back here again.